Sounds of an Artist
by darkangel1211
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Reunion Fic - Sherlock returns to the flat, two and a half years after his 'death', to a side of John that he hadn't known existed. Reviews welcomed/encouraged. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them. **

**Post-Reichenbach Reunion Fic**

**Sherlock returns to the flat, two and a half years after his 'death', to a side of John that he hadn't known existed.**

**A/N: For reference, the date of Sherlock's fall is, to all best guesses on Google timelines, on June 12th****2011. I don't actually know if this is true (in the context of BBC Sherlock) but it's the basis for this story until we get some answers in Series Three :-)**

Part One

The lights of 221B Baker Street's apartment were flickering in the near darkness of London's streets, bright enough that Sherlock knew John was in the apartment, dim enough that he was unsure of John's state of wakefulness. It was three in the morning after all.

It was a hit and miss coming back here, leaving a decidedly bitter taste in his mouth and his lips pursed with dissatisfaction. Mycroft's resources were spread both deep and wide, so Sherlock knew that John still resided at the flat, but six months after his fall Mycroft had insisted that if Sherlock wanted to see how John was faring it would be better if he could go and see for himself, which of course Sherlock had not done. He couldn't use the homeless network as he would have done previously; if they were happy to accept bribes from himself, they would certainly take them from someone who was a little less scrupulous (and a lot more dangerous), leaving his contact at MI6 being his best source of information. When that dried up so did everything else regarding John and, as much as he hated to admit it, he didn't know what would await him once he opened that door.

Sherlock had tried not to let Mycroft's words bother him, but his insufferable, strangely caring brother knew how to get a reaction out of him and this was no different. Yet, even as Mycroft's manipulation had initially spurred him into motion, Sherlock knew instinctively that it was time for his return.

His footsteps sounded unusually loud underneath him, their echoes resounding down the deserted street no matter how much Sherlock tried to stifle the sound. He tucked his hands into his pockets to keep the chill off them and crossed the street to the front door of their … John's flat. Knocking seemed a bit presumptuous at this early hour and Sherlock didn't have a key on him but twenty-eight months on the hunt didn't mean that he hadn't picked up a few skills along the way. He pulled out his lock-pick, checked the street again to ensure he was alone and gave a small smile when the lock clicked _just right_.

Warmth met him first, then, as his eyes adjusted to the light of the hallway, small details flashed in front of him; the dark tinge of rust on the door hinges of the apartment Mrs Hudson never managed to rent out. The smell of Mrs Hudson's faint perfume, still lingering after her night out with another suitor. The long, dark staircase that suddenly felt insurmountable because of what lay at the top of it, the old steps creaking under his weight in all the right places.

Sherlock wasn't surprised that the door to his old flat hadn't closed properly. Shortly after his disappearance, he'd heard that John had slammed the door in a fit of frustration and despair, effectively breaking it in the process so that any effort to close it properly would lead to that same person trying to desperately open it again. In the end, it was easier to leave it ajar, something that Sherlock was grateful for when he stepped into the apartment.

Too much detail, he realised immediately. Too much the same, too much changed. The kitchen table was still full of his experiments but they were merely in transition, planned for the boxes that were close by to be packed up and put away. The boxes themselves were sturdy things but were also covered in a fine layer of dust – they had been put on the floor and hadn't been moved for two, no, three months. '_Unable to complete the move. Unable to accept.'_

His keen gaze roved the rest of the apartment, the scent of John stirring as he moved to the living room, taking in the lit candles dotted on the table and fireplace, the fire in the hearth popping embers behind the new guard. He now understood the flickering that he'd seen outside on the street, the flames providing the warmth that would be needed in the cold winter months but also saving on the heating bill. John didn't have the income to continue living in an apartment as prestigious as this, but Mrs Hudson had allowed him to stay with the promise that he would do his bit to save on the living costs. By all accounts, it looked like John had been succeeding. This detail, however, was lost when Sherlock turned to look at the wall that had so stubbornly withstood the bullets he'd fired at it.

From the top of the old, grey sofa to the ceiling, almost the entire wall was covered in pictures. Not fully coloured photographs, these black and white images were handcrafted in a small range of materials spanning pencils, pens and charcoal. The paper itself was the sort used by more serious artists, _'Winsor and Newton, Bristol Board, two hundred and fifty grams per square metre, extra smooth,'_the sizes differing depending on the detail that the artist in question had wanted to go into on the subject, from sizes spanning A5 to A3. Mouth dropping slightly, Sherlock was mildly surprised to find that the subject was _himself._

No one picture was the same but almost all of them showed him in a particular profile, his coat and scarf making a regular appearance as well as his usual tailored suit with the topmost buttons undone and jacket closed. He paid attention to one particular picture that was slightly different to the others only because it had John in it as well. It showed a close up of Sherlock's face, his gaze fierce and determined, his mouth taut with the tension that was no doubt in the rest of his frame. There wasn't any specific detail on John's own face (he was facing away from the artist – so to speak), serving only as a proximity indicator in the overall image.

Sherlock flicked through his memories of the last time he had looked at John in such a way and realised it was when he had accused Lestrade of breaking into the flat and the DI had promptly informed him that it was for a drugs bust. John had meant to provide a backup to Sherlock, vehemently denying the existence of drugs in the apartment, and Sherlock had told him in no uncertain terms to shut up. They never did find the drugs (of course he knew where they would go and try to look for them, mindless imbeciles) and Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at the way John had immediately stood up for him, albeit massively uninformed of Sherlock's other … habits at the time.

Other pictures also stood out amongst the rest; Sherlock playing his violin, his form graceful and his eyes closed as his fingers gently, lovingly, coaxed music into air around them. Another one showing Sherlock when he laughed, his eyes almost glowing on the paper as his smile reached them. Sherlock with his microscope, a side profile this time, showing his form at the kitchen table, his poise as his fingers manipulated the instrument to zoom in for a closer inspection.

Almost all of the pictures showing Sherlock in various daily routines often showed close-ups of his face. His thinking face, his deducing face. Sherlock noted that in nearly all of those pictures his eyes were the most intense part of them, whether it had been him staring into space whilst trying to figure out a puzzle, or equally glancing at a person for two seconds before working out nearly everything he needed too based on their appearance alone. All the drawings had a date and a signature in the bottom right-hand corner, done in black ballpoint ink, _'Parker pen, Jotter Premium,'_ and always signature first, date second. The earliest date was the first of January twenty-twelve, almost six months after the incident at Bart's, and Sherlock wondered briefly if this was what Mycroft had been alluding to concerning John's welfare.

Sherlock was fairly certain of the artist's identity – only John had been with Sherlock long enough to transcribe the detail on the paper in front of him and the signature, created for the work, was in John's handwriting, which left him facing one last question. '_Why has John been drawing me?_'

"Do you like them?"

Sherlock whipped round sharply towards the voice, surprise making him stumble back a step before his mind took in the man who stood before him. In all outward respects John looked very much unchanged, but to Sherlock (who, it could be argued, understood and knew John better than the man himself) all the _little details_ added to an altogether different person than before.

John was dressed in his usual casual attire, a beige threadbare jumper and dull blue jeans that hung loose on his hips that were once the correct size, supported with a leather belt where the notches had been steadily moving inwards. '_Lost weight, too much.'_ His hands were hooked into the pockets of his jeans, relaxed, his entire posture no longer held in the rigid conformity of the British Army. No, the most striking feature of John Watson at that point was his _face._

There weren't any more lines than before around his eyes or forehead. His mouth was quirked in the sort of half smile Sherlock had secretly come to enjoy seeing on his flatmate. But his eyes…

He understood now why John had spent so much attention on his own eyes in the drawings. Eyes were so expressive, hinted at deeper things, hidden away where you were lucky to perhaps catch a glimpse of the secrets that dwelled within those misty waters. John's eyes were looking at Sherlock without flinching, without remorse or anger or grief. They were steadfast and all at once Sherlock understood what it was like for people who happened to catch his own attention during those fateful cases. _'How did you do that, how do you know that, how can you possibly tell_**_that_**_from the way my tie was done this morning?'_

A quick clearing of John's throat brought the consulting detective back to the present, a raised eyebrow clearly showing that John was waiting for an answer that Sherlock had yet to give him. "Sherlock… Are you all right?"

The sound of his name in John's voice almost had Sherlock's knees buckling from under him. Two and a half years. Twenty-eight long, lonely months he had waited for this and the reality of the situation was threatening to turn his coloured coded, alphabetised mind upside down.

To an outsider, little of Sherlock's body language had changed in response to the chaos in his thoughts, but John was no outsider and clearly saw the struggle that his old flatmate was going through. He opened his mouth for a moment but hesitated, his lips forming a thin line before coming to a decision. "Fancy a cuppa?"

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and watched as John turned smartly towards the kitchen to start the brew. _'Hasn't completely lost the army training then,'_ he thought, glancing at the spot of John's pinpoint turn before turning his attention back to the man directly. John was moving with an unhurried efficiency, easily locating the tea bags and sugar when previously it would have been a struggle at best. Knowing that he would just be a nuisance if he tried to help, Sherlock turned to examine the rest of the apartment, finding an interest in the ways that John had made it his home during his absence.

Their chairs were still there and he saw clearly that one of them hadn't been sat in for a long while. '_My chair,'_he remembered, made even more evident by the fact that his violin case was leaning against one of the side arms, precisely as he had left it two and half years ago. It seemed it had only been wiped clean to keep the dust off it and Sherlock swallowed at the thought of who had looked after it for him. He fought against the sentiment that rose to consume him – '_an old friend'_ – choosing instead to take a perch on the sofa underneath the newly decorated (and much better for it) wall for a better viewpoint.

His skull was still sitting on the fireplace, Mrs Hudson flatly refusing to tell him its location when she had taken it that one time despite his threatening to leave human body parts in _her_ fridge instead, but John had proven to be a more than adequate replacement and Sherlock had found that the company was preferable. At least when Sherlock was talking to John, John hadn't answered back quite as much as the skull.

A new CD player was on his – John's– desk and the paperwork and books that had been on it were now neatly filed underneath it, creating a space for John to do his artwork it seemed. There was an open sketch pad on the desk of the same quality as the paper on the wall, a pencil on it as though it had just recently been used. '_Flaking's of rubber on the page, pencil,'_HB, his mind supplied,_'and rubber close together on the right hand side, beginnings of a figure left unfinished.'_He itched to take a closer look at it, suddenly longed to see John's hands in action on the page, bringing something to life, before he was jostled out of his thoughts by a cup of tea being pressed into his hands. The familiar smell of the brand loosened a knot in his chest that he didn't know he had and he mumbled into the cup his first words of the night. "Thank you."

John took his own seat opposite the sofa and settled back into the cushions, nursing his own tea before regarding Sherlock from the comfort of his armchair, cup cradled in his hands. "You're welcome."

God, it all felt so _formal_, constricting, crushing him where he sat and Sherlock wondered briefly if this was what panic felt like. No, he'd felt panic before, when John had been strapped to those explosives by the poolside, this was something different. This was not _normal._ Then again, when had he ever enjoyed normal?

"Stop it." John's voice commanded his attention, breaking his train of thought, although when he met John's eyes they weren't unkind. "You're thinking too much, Sherlock. It's all over you."

Sherlock hummed in his throat and allowed a small smile that he knew John would see. "Trying to deduce the world's only consulting detective, Dr Watson?"

John answered with a small smile of his own. "Not trying, Sherlock. _Doing._"

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**Warnings: Slight dismissal about suicides/attempted suicides from Sherlock.**

Part Two

Sherlock chose to take another sip of tea to hide his reaction to John's statement. _'Doing? What does he mean by that?'_ If John was as good as he made himself sound (and he did sound very confident of himself), then Sherlock knew that John had already seen his reaction by deciding to take more tea; a seemingly innocent gesture that spoke volumes of unease in a man who ultimately tried to hide his vulnerabilities from everyone around him and deny that they ever existed in the first place.

And was shocked again when John chuckled underneath his breath. _'Dammit.'_

"Sherlock." John was leaning forward in his chair, placing his tea on the floor close by so he could clasp his hands together. "I hope you're not thinking that I'm suddenly going to become another self-proclaimed consulting detective who's going to try and usurp you. Because that's not what I'm thinking at all." His eyes lost their focus on Sherlock for a moment, making the other man wonder exactly where John had disappeared to for those few seconds. "I'm not going to become your arch enemy either." A snap of the flames in the hearth. "The world doesn't need another … Moriarty."

_His _name, almost a whisper but still too much to bear, like picking the scabs off of old wounds that would never heal.

_'Ah,'_ Sherlock thought. "Well, as much as I value your opinion of yourself, John," he began, "you really would just be the first _amateur _consulting detective in the world. And the police don't consult amateurs." That earned a wistful look from his old blogger, both of them remembering the taxi ride on their way to that first crime scene where John had found out exactly how good Sherlock was. Is, as a matter of fact. He knew that he hadn't lost any of his old touches. He wouldn't have come back if he had.

John settled back in his chair, crossing his ankles with his hands now clasped in his lap, looking at Sherlock with his lips slightly pursed. _'Thoughtful,'_ Sherlock remembered. _'Ankles crossed right over left indicating comfort, no unease. Left hand steady, clasp is loose on the fingers. Shoulders relaxed; no tension in the neck or spine. No emotional trauma indicated through physical review. Further analysis of subject required.'_

"So… you never did answer my question," John said, and gestured to the wall at Sherlock's back. "Do you like them?"

Sherlock didn't bother turning around to look at the pictures again, for the moment at least. He finished his tea and also set it on the floor beside him before resting his arms on his knees and clasping his hands together, deliberately mimicking John's position earlier. The small smile on John's face told him that it hadn't gone unnoticed. "You of all people know, John, that I've never been forthright with my feelings. That isn't about to change anytime soon." He swept a hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes when they lost their focus as a result. God, he was so _tired_. "Feelings certainly haven't been at the front of my mind for the last two and a half years."

John hummed without commitment at Sherlock's last sentence, looking down at his hands where he was rubbing his thumbs together. "And what about before that?"

"Before what?" Sherlock removed his hand from his eyes, blinking them to adjust to the light as he looked at John again.

"At the hospital. 'That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note.'" John paused for a moment with his eyes shut against the light and Sherlock realised that even now the memory was still raw, still painful, for the other man to recall. "You said that on the roof before you… before you jumped. People don't usually leave notes at their suicides unless they care about the people that they'll be leaving behind."

Sherlock scoffed at this. "If they really cared about the people they'd leave behind they wouldn't do it in the first place. _I had no choice, _John. If there had been another way to stop him, to sa-," he clamped his lips shut, fighting what had been about to come out of his mouth. He wasn't ready to divulge the reason why he had faked his own death, not out of disrespect to John, who he considered a very close friend, but because of the acts he had been forced to commit afterwards to ensure the deceit remained intact. Sherlock had his own share of scars to bear and the time spent apart from John and the others had not been kind.

John didn't ask Sherlock what he had been about to say, sensing that it wasn't the right time for it, this conversation, and Sherlock was relieved that, for now, the matter had rested. There was still so much to do and his analytical mind, both a blessing and curse, constantly reminded him of that fact. So much left to say, to justify. He took a shuddering breath, the second physical reaction that exposed his exhaustion in John's presence, and it wasn't long before he felt hands tugging at his coat and removing his scarf from his body.

"Let's get you out of these, Sherlock," John was murmuring. "You need to rest, ok, before you make yourself ill. Doctor's orders."

A short laugh escaped Sherlock before he could stop it, looking up at John through weary eyes. "It feels like it's been so long since I've done that. Thank you, John."

With his coat and scarf off, John helped Sherlock to his feet, placing Sherlock's arm over his shoulder when it became apparent that his legs weren't able to support his bodyweight anymore. They made it with little hassle to Sherlock's old room despite the feeling that he had lead weights for feet and wasn't able to coordinate his movements, relying on John for more than balance. He was happy to see that his old bedroom had not been changed for the most part, but he did notice that his bed had a fresh set of quilts and blankets spread over the top of it which had been recently laundered.

Sherlock was about to jokingly ask who else John had had in the apartment since his fall but decided against it. It wasn't the time.

He was pushed back so he was leaning against the wall closest to the door and felt more clothes being removed with the same unhurried efficiency he had seen John make the tea with. The jacket, shirt and trousers were folded neatly and placed on his beside cabinet with his shoes placed nearby; the comforter and quilts pushed back from his pillows, and all too soon Sherlock felt himself being lowered into the bed. Socks swiftly followed, his legs lifted up and lowered under the quilts on sheets that were cool against his body. The mattress hadn't been changed, still fitting to the contours of his form, and his head rested snugly into the pillow underneath him, eyes closing unbidden at the relaxation that flooded him.

The quilts were pulled back up over him, warding off the chill that had crept up on him when John had removed his clothes (leaving his underwear on, of course), hands pushing the fabric close to his body so Sherlock felt he was like in a cocoon made of his own sheets. He heard John leave the room for a minute, half conscious of his movement in the apartment, and opened his eyes again when he heard the sound of a glass being set on his bedside table next to an alarm clock. Water, in case he woke up thirsty later on.

"I'm not going to set the alarm," John said softly, leaning over the bed slightly so Sherlock could see his profile against the light that came in through the open door behind him. "I need you to sleep until you wake up naturally, not just because you're bored." The last said with that half-smile again that Sherlock still secretly liked, relishing the care that was being taken over his welfare when he felt that he didn't really deserve it. Even if his choices had been made to save the people closest to him.

"Good night, John," he mumbled as sleep finally took him, smiling a little when thought he heard the other man wish him pleasant dreams. For all he knew, he could have imagined it.

John's POV

John closed the door quietly to Sherlock's bedroom, his movements slow and precise. The other man looked dead on his feet and John didn't want to take the risk of waking him again when Sherlock had had trouble sleeping beforehand anyway. He regarded the closed door briefly before walking back to the living room and sitting in his chair, a quiet huff escaping him. He looked at his bare feet for a second, skin warm on the floor beneath him thanks to the fire, and then remembered his drink. The tea had gone cold now but it didn't stop him from picking the cup up and draining the rest of the contents, even as he winced slightly. He never had liked cold tea.

In the last hour, John had lost count of the amount of times he'd been forced to question his sanity, something that even a good old cup of tea couldn't cure. He wondered if it was possible that he'd somehow dreamed it all, that soon he would wake up in his bed, drenched with sweat and gasping, reality slipping through his fingers like fine, dry sand. John shook his head slightly to dispel the thought, chucking under his breath. No, he didn't know that he hadn't finally lost his mind, but at least in this reality he was still able to question it, still had the presence of mind to be open about it.

It didn't mean that the idea hadn't scared him though.

John looked towards the window overlooking Baker's Street, rising from his seat to go towards it and pushing the curtain back so he could see the road. Memories most recent dashed through him, seeing the profile of a man walking up the road, his gait long with his coat flaring behind him, hands buried in his pockets and scarf wrapped snugly around his neck to keep the heat in although his hair, slightly longer with curls, was being buffeted by the wind. He didn't know how he'd known who it was, couldn't possibly have guessed that Sherlock was still alive, but he'd hurried to the table with his sketch pad, quickly drawn an outline of what he'd seen on the page with a few alterations, before walking quickly to Sherlock's room just as he'd heard the front door open to the building itself. No doubt the man had used a lock-pick as John hadn't heard the sound of a key being entered into the door, just the faint clicks of metal working their way around the lock, searching for the placement of the base pins that would release the cylinder. _'It only took him seven seconds to work out the shear line on a new lock. Amazing.'_

His thoughts that had swiftly moved on from that when he heard the footsteps on the stairs and focussed on the task at hand, his military training making it an easy job. If the man himself was really back, even in his own head, John wanted to make him feel welcome in a place that he'd not seen for a long time.

He'd heard Sherlock enter the apartment, listening to his movements even as John finished smoothing the quilts over the mattress and fluffing the pillows, the scent of orchids breezing around him from the cloth that had only been cleaned that day. It was when he heard the movements stop that he counted the seconds, waiting to give Sherlock time to adjust to the changes before he moved, standing in the doorway of the living room and watching Sherlock's face as he took in the pictures on the wall that John had taken under two years to complete. Even then, it wasn't completely finished. There was still room on the wall after all.

He moved away from the window and turned towards his – Sherlock's – desk. He still couldn't call it his, especially when the man was a scant few metres from him in the same apartment. Hell, not even after Sherlock had died. Nevertheless he took the seat, switched on the CD player and settled down to the paper in front of him, the violins from Battlestar Galatica's 'Roslin and Adama' gently filling the air around him.

Sherlock's POV

When the sun finally rose that morning, it was apparent that Sherlock was not well. He felt wakefulness drift over him slowly, like a fog that had seeped through his skin and into his bones, infiltrating, possessing him. Opening his eyes was much harder than he remembered and he was thankful that his blinds were closed, shutting out the light while he waited for the bleariness to pass. His body moved automatically into a stretch to ease tired muscles into the day and he groaned in his throat when they protested the action, bones clicking in their joints from being held in one position for too long. _'Six hours, at least.' _The water that John had left him the previous night beckoned to him, his throat feeling dry and sore, but he noticed with a quiet huff that the sheets were tangled in his legs and around his body, preventing any easy movement. A hot, sticky sensation accompanied his throat and eyes, the sheets glued to his skin with sweat that seeped from every pore on his body to chill him from a heat that he didn't feel.

Sherlock felt a smirk play on his lips for a second, his very often black sense of humour finding the whole situation ridiculous and not altogether unpredicted. It wasn't a revelation that he didn't take care of his body while his mind received all the nourishment he could provide it. It hinged more on the fact that he simply forgot to look after the machine that housed his brilliance, his thought process not allowing for natural things like food and sleep when there were cases to be solved and serial murderers to play with.

His attention diverted when he heard the footsteps coming to his door through ears that felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton wool and shut his eyes quickly as the door opened to the light that he'd been trying to avoid. He let out a pained groan as the light stabbed behind his eyelids, body turning away to shield himself from it, and he heard a muffled curse from behind him before the door was closed again.

A hand settled on his arm closest to the edge of the bed, gently pressing so that Sherlock lay on his back again, blinking up at the person standing next to him. "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," John was saying. "I just came to check up on you, I didn't think you'd be awake, I-"

"For goodness sake, John, do shut up," Sherlock muttered, stopping John in his tracks. He pulled a hand from under the sheets to cover his eyes. "I'm in need of a drink … but I don't think I can move without assistance." His next words galled him. "I don't think I'm feeling well," and then his body seemed to seize up all at once, his lungs stalling on his next inhale before ripping the breath from him, violent coughs shaking his frame. He felt the sheets being pulled away from his chest to give him room to breathe, hands working their way underneath his body to gently pull him into a sitting position to aid the coughing to recovery. His skin felt clammy now without the warmth of the sheet and his hair stuck to his face with the cold sweat that made him shake where he sat.

"That's it," John's words filtered through to him, "just breathe, Sherlock. Slow, deep breaths with me, alright. Relax, let it happen, it'll pass."

His arms were like warm iron bands around Sherlock's chest, steadying him, urging him to lean back into John's body that was now behind him, providing support and comfort while he tried to get his breath back. Sherlock felt briefly ashamed for the weakness, the sounds of his gasps loud in the still air of the room, his chest aching, and then reprimanded himself. He wasn't _that_ sick, not really. Right? "What's wrong with me, John?" Dear God, he sounded so pathetic.

"Sounds like a respiratory infection, maybe a mild case of the flu," John murmured, gently rubbing his hands across Sherlock's chest and rib cage to ease tired muscles when he saw his patient was struggling. "We'll know for sure in a couple of hours, but we can try to stall it with medication if we need to. Probably brought on from your exhaustion yesterday, you know. These things have a habit of creeping up on most people."

"I've never," gasp, "been sick … in my life, John." Another breath, this one smoother. "I'm not about to … start now. I'm not … most people."

"Well a positive frame of mind certainly does help the healing process so at least you're half way there," John retorted softly. Sherlock could almost hear the sarcasm and decided to give John points for holding back when he himself wouldn't have done. "Do you think you'll be ok now? Can you move?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly towards where John's face was, lifting his eyes to the other man's and a little taken aback by the concern he saw there. "Water please," he rasped. "Need…"

"Ssshhh," John soothed him. "Just wait there, ok, don't try to move." Sherlock felt the body behind him shift slightly, leaning across to his bedside table before returning, a slightly callused hand holding the glass in front of him. He hadn't realised his head was leaning back against John's shoulder until a hand slid to the back of his neck to encourage him to tilt his head forward slightly, the glass pressed to his dry lips. The water was still cool when it hit the back of his throat, little sips sliding down a throat that felt like sandpaper, scorched and raw from the infection rooted inside it. John's hand still remained on the back of his neck, providing comfort and stability in a world that appeared dull and listless. How was he supposed to work like this, under these conditions? Then again, being dead did have its problems. He could practically imagine the headlines…

The water was taken away when he motioned that he'd had enough, the coughing threatening to start up again if he took too much too soon, and titled his head back against John again, eyes closed, relieved that the water had helped a little with the ache in his chest. John's hands returned to their previous positions on his rib cage and chest, feeling the motion of his breathing to evaluate his condition, making sure the movement was slow and even. "I know this probably isn't the best time," John mumbled from behind him, "but … is this it now? Are you back? You know, for good this time? Is it finished?"

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing while he figured out how to sum up in one sentence what John had asked in several questions. "Yes," he whispered finally, the weight on his shoulders floating away with the outcome that had taken so long to come to completion. "It's finished."

_To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**No warnings for this chapter.**

Part Three

At some point during the morning, Sherlock realised that his breaths were in unison with John. He tried not to think about it too much, keeping his body relaxed and his breathing light, using the link with John to keep him distracted from the illness currently coursing through his body. His water was nearly gone through John's encouragement, claiming dehydration would only make him feel worse than the pain in his throat and chest combined. Medication had yet to be retrieved from the bathroom but neither man seemed to want to move, although Sherlock had no idea what John's motive was other than to provide the care that a sick person needed. Yes, that was more than likely it.

John's hands had moved from his chest and ribcage to around his waist, keeping the pressure light to prevent any discomfort so that he could keep providing Sherlock with the warmth that his body both craved and shunned at the same time. Occasionally he would feel John's breaths against his hair, across his temple, on his neck, each one different as John moved his head around to stretch out neck muscles that had become tense. Despite John's increasing discomfort, Sherlock was very much disinclined to move. Having never _suffered_ with anything like this before (and he was, indeed, suffering), the last thing he wanted was to be left on his own, his sickness making him feel weak and vulnerable.

It was one thing to be left alone when one needed to think, to work out, to puzzle over. It was quite another to be left alone when control was a distant memory and misery was the reality.

Misery that was only going to increase, it seemed, when John let out a pained grunt from behind him and shifted with an apology that he had to get up and that Sherlock was, as he put it, no lightweight. "Do you actually know how heavy you are?" John moaned as his got up from the bed, turning back to look at Sherlock while he worked out the kinks in his neck and back.

Sherlock was now resting against the headboard of the bed which was considerably colder than his previous spot, making his response a bit gruffer than he'd intended. "I'm assuming that that is a rhetorical question … as you are more than adept at working out … how heavy I am, John." John rolled his eyes in the way that Sherlock remembered so well and he couldn't stop the smile that broke out on his face in answer to it.

John finished stretching out his body with a just a few winces and sat back down on the edge of the bed, near Sherlock's legs this time so he was facing the detective. "How does a hot bath sound and maybe some breakfast?" he said gently, searching Sherlock's face for discomfort.

He didn't have to search very hard, Sherlock reflected, when his own face twisted at the mention of having to move his body to another area, the tender areas already protesting the thought of having to move without actually having done so. His throat closed up at the word 'breakfast', regardless of what it would consist of, as the water he'd drunk (which was as smooth as anything could get) had done nothing to soothe the blades that he was sure were buried in there somewhere. In sharp contrast though, his mind desperately wanted to get out of bed, wanted to be back where it belonged, solving cases, bright as ever and alert to the point of being physically detrimental. _'Well, maybe not the last part…' _he thought with his own wince, his body only too happy to remind him why allowing his mind to override his basic needs was a bad idea.

"I know it hurts," John said, giving Sherlock a look of sympathy, "but having a long soak and getting some food down your neck will make you feel better. And we'll get you some pain meds too, that should help with the muscle fatigue for a bit until we get you settled again." He was already moving, clasping Sherlock's old glass in one hand while giving his hand a brief squeeze of reassurance with the other before leaving the room, keeping the door slightly ajar so that Sherlock's eyes could begin to adjust to the light just behind it.

The short time John was away allowed Sherlock to do some reflecting, his mind switching between several different things at once. Of course there was the matter of his current status within the General Registrar Offices of England and Wales, not to mention HM Revenue and Customs. How else was he meant to be a law-abiding citizen and pay his taxes if he was still classed as deceased? Mycroft would be horrified, which tempted him for a moment to do just that if it weren't for the fact that he'd probably be arrested for it. That had never stopped him before though…

There was also the matter of his reputation. It had been sorely tarnished before he died and he couldn't go exactly come clean with his whereabouts during the last two and a half years. It wasn't even a question of keeping quiet about his actions during that same period but he grudgingly gave some credit to the public masses. They would want answers, just like he would have done, although they would have both come to very different conclusions. He couldn't put his friends through that, not even dear Molly who had tried to keep him updated during those lonely months at the cost of making everyone around her believe his deceit. And especially not John.

For once in his life, Sherlock was unsure where his path was currently headed and whether or not there was a way back towards his obsession as a consulting detective.

His thoughts were pulled from him when John came back with a fresh glass of water and two pills, one paracetamol for the pain and one ibuprofen for any swelling caused by the infection. He also had a thermometer pinched between the fingers of the hand that carried the tablets and Sherlock allowed John to place the tip into his mouth as the water and pills were placed on the bedside table. Apparently the test was quicker to yield results than even John had anticipated as the thermometer was removed and the resulting tut had Sherlock smiling again. "I'm assuming that it's bad news."

"One hundred and two degrees Fahrenheit, Sherlock, which is way too high. Here, take these, they should bring the fever down." John helped him take the pills before pulling the covers back from his body and tugging him out of the bed to the bathroom where the air was already warm with steam from the water flowing in the tub. For one horrified moment, Sherlock thought John was going to take off his underwear himself, but the retired army-doctor merely shut the water off and told him to get into the bath, pants and all, because "you're not actually having a bath. We're just trying to keep you warm for the moment. Yes, yes, I know you've got a fever, but your skin temperature is freezing and it won't do you any favours if you remain that way. Now get in the bath."

Oh, but the water felt so _good_, sliding over his body and persuading all those aches to go away, to give his body some peace and a chance to recuperate. Sherlock was pleased that John's medical training hadn't left him at that point, the little details flashing like neon signs behind his eyelids; the way the water came up to just over his sternum when he was sitting up, leaving his chest bare so that he didn't feel compressed, whilst the rest of him was subjected to the heat and gentle rolling waves of the water around him. A towel was placed at the back of his head, rolled up to provide a make-shift cushion so that he could lean back against it without hurting his neck or shoulders and a cool flannel had been placed over his forehead to help bring his fever down. Even the coughing which had so crippled him earlier was held at bay, the steam loosening the phlegm in his throat and encouraging him to swallow rather than heave it back up. Who needed a GP's Practice when you had your own live-in one?

Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut during those small details, lulled by the peace and security that he felt around and inside him. Yes, he was sick. Yes, it would take time to heal. But now it felt like he had time, all the time in the world, to do so. Still, the atmosphere felt fragile, the relationship he now shared with John brittle and scarred. Having so recently returned, he still unsure of his reception with the other man, had yet to see how John really felt about him returning to a life that should have, by all accounts, been moved on from.

His eyes opened again as another memory pushed to the forefront; John standing next to his grave, asking for one more miracle, to just stop it, _stop this_. He'd stood beside a dead person and asked for that person to come back, to not be dead. Why?

"Why, John?" he murmured, turning his head to look at the other man who was leaning against the sink, dosing with his eyes closed and head drooped down onto his chest.

"Hmmm… what?" John jolted himself awake, rubbing at his eyes and yawning deeply before looking at him directly. "Sorry, Sherlock, what was that?"

"At the grave," Sherlock said, "when you thought I was dead. Why did you ask for one more miracle?" He looked away from John, gathering his composure before making eye contact again. "Why did you want me back?"

John pushed his bottom lip out in a look of puzzlement before frowning a little. "Well, uh… Why _wouldn't _I want you back, Sherlock?" He crossed his arms again, tilting his head to one side. "I mean … you heard what I said at the grave, right? That you are the most human, human being I'd ever met. That I owed you so much." He went to the bath and knelt beside it so he met Sherlock's eye level. "Why do you need to ask the question when you already know the answer?"

Sherlock looked at John's face, searching for something that he wasn't even sure about, for some clue, a twitch, an pupil dilation, anything to explain why he felt the way he felt.

Nothing.

Nothing but truth, honest, vulnerable truth. John had meant every word he'd said that day and it appeared that nothing had happened to dilute the way John felt about him, had only made it stronger as time passed. Something had happened…

"May I ask you something, John?" Sherlock didn't allow his unease to show on his face, kept his eyes focussed with what was left of his concentration on his flatmate. John looked surprised at the question; Sherlock very rarely asked for information, had grown into a habit of finding out himself and if that didn't work, demanding it, but nodded an affirmative, leaving Sherlock to gather his nerve again. "During the time I was away, why did you draw pictures of me? On the wall?"

John blinked once, twice, breaking eye contact briefly before looking back and clearing his throat. "Do you know what people used to do during the nineteenth century, Sherlock? When photography was invented?"

Yes, of course he knew, especially given the context of their discussion, but he didn't say it quite so abruptly, choosing instead to nod, encouraging John to continue, to explain.

"When people died," John began, "they used to take photographs of them to try and keep them alive, as though their souls were in the portraits." He closed his eyes and laughed quietly. "The only pictures I had of you were the ones in the newspapers with that stupid hat and … the others. Sure, they were pictures of you, but that's all they were. Just pictures."

Sherlock didn't say anything, waiting to hear what John had to say.

"If it really was real, you know, about keeping people alive in portraits, I didn't think the pictures that we had were enough. You despised having your picture taken, being on the news. You were… Are a very private person. If you were to survive as the person I knew and understood, I knew that they wouldn't be enough." John took a deep breath. "I believed, for a moment, that if I could keep you alive, just as you were, the only way I could do it would be to create images of you that I had seen and experienced.

"You asked me last night whether I was trying to deduce the world's only consulting detective and I told you that I was doing it. The only reason I was able to see it was because I have been _seeing_ it. In my head. All those things you used to do. I thought that if I could get them on the paper quick enough … it would be enough to save you." That half smile appeared again, John eyes lightening with warmth that Sherlock had only ever seen directed at one person – himself. "So, in light of this new information, how well do you think I did?"

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them. The lyrics, what little I have posted here, belong to Evanescence, never to me.**

**No warnings for this chapter.**

Part Four

John's POV

The minute he asked Sherlock the question he immediately wanted to snatch it back from the air, turn back the clock, anything so that he could actually _think_ about what it was he wanted to say before he actually said it. _'So how well do you think I did? Yeah right… Way to be subtle, John.'_ It wasn't that he wasn't genuinely curious about what Sherlock had to say, but it was an almost harrowing experience telling the other man why he had created them and the artist in him craved feedback on the pictures that, until now, had been only seen by Mrs Hudson and Molly when they popped in to check on him.

Well, it was too late now. He remained kneeling by the bath on the mat beside it and tried not to let his unease show on his face, which was impossible really because he knew Sherlock had already seen it, sick or not. He just hoped he hadn't made too big of a prat of himself.

He startled when the water shifted in the bath but a quick "relax, John, I'm just getting comfortable," from Sherlock stilled his thoughts. The water had to be getting cold now but Sherlock made so sign that he wanted to get out yet, instead releasing an audible sigh when the desired position was achieved.

"John." His name, breathed, bringing his attention back to Sherlock, the other man relaxing marginally when John met his eyes. "Isn't it time you asked me the question you really want to ask? You don't want to know whether or not I like the pictures, not really. You're curious, yes; you want me to give you feedback as every aspiring artist does, but that isn't what's concerning you." Sherlock chuckled in his throat and closed his eyes briefly before opening them again, fixing John with a stare that always made him feel like a deer in the headlamps of a car … no. A train was more apt. A two hundred mile-an-hour speeding train that he had somehow got in the way of, didn't even see coming though every instinct was screaming at him to run.

He knew Sherlock had an answer when the connection was broken, that train suddenly following the tracks round a bend and averting him from disaster. "If you must know, I don't _dislike_ them. Happy now?"

John released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and a small part of him laughed inside with relief. There was the Sherlock he knew. He might never know how the detective felt about his drawings but he didn't need to. Right now there were more important things to focus on. "I suppose that'll do, yes," he replied. "Can't have you deciding to tear them down when I need to pop out for a bit."

Sherlock scoffed. "Just because I don't care about them doesn't mean I can't appreciate them."

John smirked. "No, but I don't think they'll be as useful in a case, do you?"

For once, Sherlock didn't have a response to make and John decided it was time to move things on. Although he seemed to be much better, the infection would still be strong in Sherlock's system unless they took steps to counteract it. He knew that eating would be difficult due to Sherlock's, no doubt, sore throat and complete loss of appetite, but he had to make him eat. John knew the maxim was to feed a cold and starve a fever according to the old wives tales, however, if Sherlock's eating habits hadn't changed, John was concerned that his body wasn't getting the level of nutrition it needed to fight off the invaders currently battling inside it.

This led to John helping his patient out of the bath amidst a mixture of grumbles and huffs, all of which he took in his stride as he wrapped Sherlock in a towel and sat him on the toilet seat with firm instructions to dry himself off. He would have started to do it himself when he saw how weak his old friend was but decided against it; Sherlock never had been a fan of physical contact, not with living people anyway, and it didn't look as though that had changed in their time apart, despite the incident in the bedroom just now. Instead he waited patiently, draining the water from the bath and generally tidying up while he gave Sherlock the illusion of privacy. When he turned back Sherlock was wrapped up in the towel again, the warmth from the water leaving his skin a light pink colour from where the blood had rushed to the surface and his eyes a lot more alert than they had been before John's care.

A trip to Sherlock's old room was next. The bed was still unmade but John sat Sherlock on it anyway while he rummaged in the man's drawers, pulling out a loose top, some combat trousers and underwear. He also grabbed the old blue dressing gown from the back of the door and passed these to Sherlock. He turned his back again while he waited for Sherlock to dress himself and concentrated on what needed to be done next. Obviously medication would need to be administered regularly and John didn't think he had enough in the apartment to last the next couple of days it would take for Sherlock to heal so a trip to the local chemist was in order. He also had to go and buy more food for them both, grimacing at the reminder of the state of his own body. He knew Sherlock had seen it, his own loss of weight, but eating during the first six months after the fall hadn't been wholly important. It was to keep him alive; there hadn't been any taste, any enjoyment. Just a means to an end.

He had noted the state of Sherlock's body when he'd undressed him before the bath. Sherlock had been lean before, but that had been with muscle, needed for chasing the bad guys in London's underground and outrunning taxi cabs. From the look of it, Sherlock's body had started to give in only recently, maybe the last two months. He would need to question Sherlock on it later; he didn't want to wake up one morning with a flatmate who now had a chronic eating disorder. _'Wait, didn't he have that before? No, that was insomnia.'_

There were also other telling indications of what Sherlock had been up to – an old scar on his left hand side, just underneath his floating rib. Looked like someone had tried to cut him open and he'd managed to deflect the blow, leaving him with a long, thin scar. That one stood out amongst the other little scars dotting Sherlock's frame. If that one had done what it was meant to do…

"I'm finished, John," Sherlock said, sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands resting on the tops. John nearly laughed at the image; Sherlock looked so much like a child then, waiting calmly for his next instruction. Go brush your teeth and then I'll read you a bedtime story. The look Sherlock gave him was anything but childlike though and John knew he hadn't fooled anyone. They both knew what he'd been thinking, each in their own way and John was suddenly glad for it. To have someone again who could tell what he was thinking by the little things, clues in his body language, in his face. He'd had to do so much _explaining_, to Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, the press when they'd managed to get hold of him, cornered in the local shop when someone had tipped them off and leaving him wasting no small amount of time trying to escape them. To not have to say anything and yet say everything was something that he had missed dearly and he let himself smile, knowing that Sherlock had already seen the relief that he felt.

John didn't have much in the way of proper food. The kitchen was still mostly a no-go area since he still hadn't packed up Sherlock's equipment and didn't want any article of food coming even close to something Sherlock may have used. He did have the basics though and decided some lightly buttered toast couldn't hurt. If Sherlock was feeling up to it later he would make some scrambled egg on toast for him, a somewhat bland meal, but a little more substantial than toast on its own.

He busied himself with the task, using the familiarity of the situation to settle his frayed nerves. Making tea and something to eat for the detective hadn't been a onetime occurrence during their time together, Sherlock usually too wrapped up in his Mind Palace to think about catering to his body's needs and needing John to remind him. This time it was just the toast and another glass of water. He didn't want to introduce too much to Sherlock right away in case his body rejected it. They still didn't know how much further the illness could go and he really didn't want to have to hold Sherlock's hair back for him while he had his face buried down the toilet.

When he went back into the living room Sherlock was curled up on his old chair with his dressing gown wrapped tightly around him; the warmth had left him and he was shivering a bit when John ushered him to take the plate, placing the cup on the floor next to the chair. "If you're feeling a bit better later I'll get you some tea," John said, taking the chair opposite and watching as Sherlock took small bites of the toast. "We'll take it steady for now but you need to let me know if you start feeling worse."

Sherlock swallowed the bite he'd taken and regarded John with a scowl. "How can I possibly feel worse than I already feel?" he retorted sharply. A pause. "Wait, don't answer that."

John shrugged in a guileless way before laughing when the act prompted another glare from Sherlock. "I'm a doctor and you're a high-functioning sociopath. I think it's safe to agree that we'll be following my advice until you're better, agreed?"

The "Hmmm" he received was more than worth it in his opinion. Still chuckling, he made sure Sherlock finished his meal before walking over to the desk and switching on the CD player, intending to play some music to fill the quietness of the room. He had a mixed CD that he usually played on repeat but decided to skip to one track in particular, hoping that the sound would sooth the tension that had started to creep up on them. The strings of 'Sad Romance – Violin Version' gently emanated from the speakers, John turning down the volume a bit so that it wasn't intrusive and sat back down in his chair, closing his eyes for a small reprieve. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock watching him but for that moment he couldn't bring himself to care what the other man thought, escaping to his own Mind Palace and bringing the music with him.

Already his mind was working, various moments throughout the morning flashing before him; seeing Sherlock for the first time in the apartment, watching him drink the tea and helping him to bed. The trust shared between them when Sherlock had allowed John to support him after his coughing fit, the weight of Sherlock's body on his own still vivid, though strictly platonic. He could feel his fingers on his right hand twitching slightly, committing to memory the materials he would need for his next design, comparing the differences between pen, pencil and charcoal for the picture he wanted to create. A pen would be too harsh for the softness of what he was seeing, the charcoal too soft. He needed the harshness of blunt lines to blend, to allow smoothness and character without it looking distorted at the end.

Sherlock remained silent throughout the process, even when the music changed tempo, 'My Immortal' with its piano and Amy Lee's voice influencing the design that John was finishing.

******_I'm so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears_**

**_And if you have to leave, I wish that you would just leave_**

'**_Cause your presence still lingers here and it won't leave me alone_**

John felt his calm shatter for a moment as the words, sung in the hauntingly beautiful way that only Amy could produce, bit into him.

**_These wounds won't seem to heal_**

**_This pain is just too real_**

**_There's just too much that time cannot erase_**

He was thrust out of his Mind Palace so quickly that he remained frozen for a moment before jerking towards the CD player and stopping it, vaguely realising that his hands were shaking although his breathing was steady. _'Not now, John. It's not the time, don't you even think about it.'_

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounded behind him, still in the general vicinity of his chair and John waved him away for a moment while he gathered himself.

"It's ok, Sherlock. Just the wrong music for what I needed, that's all."

Both men knew he was lying but Sherlock didn't say anything. Somehow, to John, the silence that fell over them felt even worse.

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**Warnings: Mild insinuations of past drug abuse.**

Part Five

Sherlock's POV

Even though his eyes were still hazy and his mind was bogged down with fatigue, Sherlock could see quite clearly that, number one, John was not all right, and number two, that there was more to this than the other man had let him see before. He disregarded the fact that he hadn't seen the signs sooner, deleting it from his Palace under information that will never be used, ever, and tried to concentrate as he watched John move through the fallout that the music had inspired. _'Evanescence, song titled 'My Immortal', lyrics denote someone special leaving the singer, possibly dead; someone close to them given lyrical choices. Violin music, artist unknown, overall tone of strings suggests intimacy, closeness, possible romance.' _He watched the way John's hands shook as they gripped the sides of the table, both hands, not just his left, the only visible sign of his distress. John's voice had been soft but not anxious, his breathing was even and slow. Measured. _'He's controlling himself, controlling his reaction around me.'_

Sherlock frowned slightly with this train of thought. Having John try to shield himself from Sherlock had never happened before, not to this extent at least,and to have it happen now…

It could possibly mean that John didn't trust him, which, Sherlock reflected, would be completely understandable, having deliberately misled John into believing what his eyes could see happening rather than having the other man using the clues that he'd tried to give him during their last phone call. For all his attempts to try and make John see from his perspective and understand how his mind worked, scotoma was a tool that he was not above using to his own advantage and in this case it had saved John's, Lestrade's and Mrs Hudson's lives.

_'I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.'_

Quite.

If he was completely honest with himself, John's reaction to his return was very much the opposite of what he had expected. Admittedly, the only time John had punched him was because he'd struck first, forcing the dormant soldier in his doctor to react to the threat he presented to his safety. He had got quite the reaction out of John that day, a bit over-zealous perhaps, but it had provided him with the results he needed that had propelled him into solving the case that _the woman_ presented to him. John may have been suffering from a lack of sleep due to his constant violin playing the night before that incident but he had not been in any way, shape or form been as distressed as he was now.

Emotions had always been a source of contention for Sherlock, fiddly things that got in the way of the truth, blinded one to the facts, like wearing rainbow tinted lenses and trying to discern something's true colour; your perception would be irrevocably altered once you let them in. There wasn't a single body that they'd looked at that John hadn't been able to see without a flicker of sympathy crossing his features; to notice the person that they'd been before, not just a corpse, but a transport for a consciousness who had thought and, perhaps the most important, to John at least, _felt_. For themselves and other people, animals, things. The list was endless.

Mycroft had been right, partially, that day when he'd given Sherlock his first smoke in months, although he would never admit that to his brother out loud. Caring was not an advantage. Hearts were indeed broken. All life resulted in the same consequence, no exceptions. Still, despite the logical side of his brain agreeing with and fortifying these facts, concern was not something he was unfamiliar with, had certainly felt before when he'd thought John was leaving him during the Baskerville case outside the church and was now something that was running through him in spades.

He remained silent, watching as the shaking in John's hands lessened and then ceased altogether, the man releasing a small sigh of relief as the tension ebbed and bled from his body. Sherlock had correctly deduced that his presence in the flat had yet to come to a crescendo between the two of them; the fact that John was fighting his emotions now was testament to that and it did unnerve Sherlock slightly. His skills as a consulting detective hadn't waned in the least but his illness made his usual knife edge dull, making clean cuts harder to achieve. Snap decisions felt drawn out, stretched thin until they literally snapped in two, sending out shockwaves that could be felt deep in the core of the people concerned.

Sherlock wondered idly whether they would both be flung back from the force of it or whether, as the old adage put it, his absence would bring them closer together, make them stronger as a result.

A wave of nausea bloomed in his stomach, halting any further musings on the matter, and he moaned deeply when the nausea was followed by a painful twisting in his guts. His body curled in on itself reflexively, as if to ward itself from the pain that had no external influence, and John was there almost immediately, encouraging him to sit up properly and reduce the pressure on his abdomen. A bucket was pushed under his chin and Sherlock had a moment to wonder exactly when John had got the bucket (he hadn't seen it in the living room last night) before violently throwing up what little he had managed to eat that morning. His hands clutched the sides of the bucket with no small amount of desperation, eyes watering at the clenching of his muscles, still spasming even though his stomach had nothing left in it to expel. His gag reflex made him dry-retch a few more times before his body finally gave in and relaxed, feeling a little better now that the twisting had stopped and the room ceased to spin.

He felt John's hands in his hair, which had been holding it back for him while he was sick, now running calloused fingers across his scalp and rubbing absently at his temples, stalling the headache which was undoubtedly heading in his direction. The human body never dealt well with vomiting after it was finished, the locking up of all those muscles creating unnecessary tension so that when it released them it was usually accompanied with pain, especially with vomiting that was induced due to influenza. To say that he was grateful to John for making the transitions easier was an understatement.

Sherlock felt John's hands stop their ministrations and remove the bucket from his lap, John's voice telling him not to move, need to empty it so it can be used again later. Sherlock knew that, once started, the sickness was going to continue until the virus had run its course but it didn't stop him feeling indignant about it, even though it heralded his return to recovery.

John returned after forty-two seconds, far too long by Sherlock's reckoning, with the now clean bucket and the equivalent of two handfuls of tissues so he could wipe his mouth and dry his eyes. Sherlock took the tissues, muttering a quiet, "thank you," before trying to make himself feel more comfortable, watching as John took his own seat and set the bucket down next to Sherlock's chair.

"I know this might sound strange but I'm relieved that this has happened," John said, waving his hands in placating manner when Sherlock gave him the best glare he could manage under the circumstances. "I'm not saying that I'm happy you're ill, idiot. Now that you've started being sick it means that your body is finally doing what it's meant to be doing. This might last for the next forty-eight hours but thankfully it means that you should start feeling better now. Am I right?"

Sherlock nodded his head fractionally, not trusting himself to speak just yet, knowing that Dr Watson would be able to work it out for himself anyway. John was apparently happy with Sherlock's answer as he went to the kitchen and pulled out the salt and sugar before mixing a little of each in a glass of water and bringing it back, placing the cup in Sherlock's hand. "Here. Drink this, it should help. Only sips, mind."

The luke-warm water was mostly sweet with the faint briny taste of the salt and he swilled each sip around his mouth to remove the taste of bile from around his teeth before swallowing. Although he had never eaten much in John's presence, he was pleased John remembered that his own tastes ran to the sweeter side of what he ate, savoury very rarely making an appearance on his menu. After all, 'where has my strawberry jam gone?' was a question that he was often asked until John had sussed it and started buying two jars of the Robinsons brand, found to be their favourite (after a heated argument over which was the best and further tests of different types had been completed). Although his taste-buds came to life at the thought of the sticky, fruity treat, his stomach gave a warning lurch and Sherlock focussed on his sugar/salt water again, trying to keep his thoughts as bland and non-food related as possible.

"I take it you haven't told anyone else about you coming back."

John hadn't phrased it as a question, more a statement, but Sherlock nodded anyway. "No, besides Mycroft and Molly who knew about my plan to begin with, you're the first."

John looked away from Sherlock for a moment, pushing out his bottom lip as he processed this new information. Sherlock could see the cogs turning in John's mind as the knowledge that Molly and Mycroft already knew wormed its way into memory, giving new insight into conversations spoken, gentle words and hugs of comfort taking on a new meaning. "Should've guessed really," John said, smiling with the revelations. "Molly was far too composed at your funeral. I wondered what was wrong with her."

"Molly was excellent at helping me fake my own death but decidedly inept at faking her own grief," Sherlock replied softly.

"She loved you, Sherlock." John shifted back in his seat, resting his arms on the armrests and putting his right foot over his left knee. "I mean, out of all the people that turned up, she wanted something more with you. I didn't believe that your death would finally be enough to convince her that girlfriends were not your area."

Sherlock knew this to be true; the time when she had asked him whether he wanted to go out for coffee had not been lost on him but he had brushed it aside, the concept of dates and feelings entirely foreign and unwelcome when the game was afoot. Yet that hadn't stopped him from deciding to take John on as a flatmate within the first two minutes of meeting him and propelling them headfirst into dangerous situations that he knew they both craved. That day, Sherlock had met the ying to his yang, the steady base that allowed his rocket to launch into the sky without tearing itself to pieces trying to leave the launch pad. Obviously that didn't stop them from arguing like cats and dogs when the opportunity arose but they inevitably gravitated back towards each other, addicted and needing their next fix, the next case pushing them ever onward. _'Better than cigarettes and heroin combined.'_

He felt water splash over his fingers suddenly and when he looked down at the glass he realised his hands were shaking again. The shivers had returned, but they weren't cold shivers like the last time. _'Likely a result of the sickness from earlier.'_ John's hands took the glass from him and set it down somewhere before lifting those hands to his face, gently turning Sherlock's head towards the light to check his skin pallor and his pupil dilation. He tried not to wince at the light streaming in through the windows but failed miserably when his temples throbbed in response. "Hurts, John."

"I know." John turned Sherlock's head back away from the light which helped with the aching behind his eyes and placed one hand over the top of them, making them close. The relief Sherlock felt was immediate, the darkness soothing and stilling him while the warmth of John's hand on his face distracted him in a pleasant way. It was completely unfeasible to think that John could keep his hand there for the rest of the day purely for Sherlock's own comfort but the idea held merit.

"Better?" John's voice was softer now, more calming. Sherlock nodded once, slowly so as not to dislodge John's hand from his face, reaching up with his own hand and resting it lightly atop the one shielding his eyes. His fingers curled around the ones resting against his temple; John was using his right hand, _'dominant side,'_ while his left was stabilising him on the chair. He could feel the heat from John's body chasing away the shivers and for a minute all Sherlock wanted to do was curl up against the other man and leach that heat from him, the idea of cold sheets and a colder mattress making him frown.

"You know, I didn't believe you before when you told me you'd never been sick before," John murmured. "But you really meant it didn't you. You've never been ill."

Sherlock wanted to say something like, 'of course not,' in the tone of voice that suggested that he was insulted by the insinuation, but the best he could manage was a shake of his head. _'God, I don't want to throw up again.'_

He felt John's hand move away from his face, unable to stop an undignified whimper at the loss, before John's hands slid under his arms and pulled him to the edge of the chair smoothly. Sherlock's head came to rest on John's shoulder, his own hands naturally finding the curve of John's waist and curling around his hips, seeking the stability that was being offered. They didn't remain in that position for long and while John's left hand curled around the centre of his back, his right slid underneath his legs. Sherlock still had the presence of mind to move his hands to around John's neck for balance before he was lifted from the chair with an ease that bellied the strength of the man carrying him.

It shouldn't have been an easy feat for John to pick Sherlock up and carry him to his room, he knew, but any concern he should have felt over the whole thing was filed away for later. For now, all he could focus on was the fact that he was being taken care of, something that he'd never experienced in his life to this extent and certainly not something that his parents had ever done for him. Arguments with Mycroft were a common occurrence, his relationship with his mother strained to the point that getting anything more than a 'hello, Sherlock,' was like trying to get blood from a stone and his father… well, some things were best left unsaid.

For the short time that he found himself cradled in John's arms, Sherlock was rapidly cataloguing the experience in his Mind Palace in the entire west wing that John now occupied. The natural gait of the man's walk provided a lulling back-note against the strength he could feel in John's arms and hands, supporting him and encouraging him, subconsciously, to give in to the moment, to the strength and safety that a soldier could provide. The heat that he'd sensed from John when he was in the chair was burning him now, his eyes pressed against the flesh of John's neck and his nose filled with the scent of home. _'Tea, medicinal gel, warm toast, John…'_

The journey to his room felt like it had taken a lifetime and yet no time at all. When John shifted the weight in his arms in preparation to lower him to the bed, Sherlock tightened his grip around John's neck, his body pressing into John's own with an unspoken plea to not leave him alone. The child that Sherlock so desperately tried to banish was raging in his cell, demanding to be let loose, the struggle with his logical mind and his human instinct making him shudder. John was making gentle sounds with his voice; meant to pacify those in need, reassure them that everything was going to be ok and that they wouldn't be left alone.

When John felt that he'd relaxed enough, Sherlock was lowered to his mattress and settled against his pillows, the quilts tugged up from underneath him and pulled over his body. Sleep called to him, his body making its need for rest known with the constant drooping of his eyelids, but it didn't stop him from reaching a hand out and grabbing one of John's, wordlessly asking for him to stay.

He had his answer a moment later when John retreated from the room to get his bucket and his drink before returning and placing the bucket near Sherlock's head on the floor and the water on his bedside table. He heard John walk around the bed until he felt the mattress dip on the other side, the quilts pulled up and another body easing itself into bed beside him. His clock, he could see dimly, hadn't gone past eleven in the morning, yet John clearly had no compunctions about climbing into bed with his flatmate at this hour purely because Sherlock had asked him to. When he felt John's arms wrap around him from behind, Sherlock fumbled for one of John's hands, clasping it firmly in his own so when sleep finally claimed him, the child in him was quiet.

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**Warnings: Some graphic imagery described. **

Part Six

John's POV

Out of all the experiences he'd had in the flat with Sherlock Holmes (and there had been a lot of them), watching the notorious consulting detective sleeping with his hand holding John's wasn't one that he could say had ever come to pass.

John thought back to the first time he'd been to visit the grave with Mrs Hudson, when he'd told Sherlock's headstone that there were times when he wasn't even sure that Sherlock was human, and compared the memory to the man resting beside him.

Sherlock's hand was loose around his own now, conscious thought no longer aware enough to keep his hand clenched. The normally tight curls of his hair were strewn about his face and across his pillow, giving him an oddly childlike appearance. His face was no longer held in the composed mask that he showed to the people around him, meaning that the mask (that even John had very rarely seen behind) was gone, leaving just a man who presumably felt things, emotions, just like every other person John had met.

Or as much as Sherlock was capable of, at least.

If Sherlock's family life was anything like his relationship with his brother, John knew there would be little love lost between them and that traditional family ties just wouldn't apply here. Sherlock's own behaviour to other people exemplified that fact, even going as far as to insinuate that Mycroft was an enemy first and a blood relative second. The problem John was facing now was that the Sherlock he thought he knew and the Sherlock sleeping beside him were vastly different people and he was having trouble consolidating the two. A normal person would never request help from an enemy to hide for the last two and a half years doing God knows what, but, then again, Sherlock wasn't exactly a normal person.

The bottom line was that John had never seen Sherlock look so _human_. When he had drawn the pictures of Sherlock they had only ever been of the person that he had experienced, had fought beside and ultimately grieved for; a person that he was now beginning to re-evaluate his stance over considering the Sherlock he'd seen in the last two hours.

It was perfectly reasonable to assume that Sherlock's illness was the root cause of his personality change. John had seen the same things happen when he was treating wounded soldiers in Afghanistan. A General would keep a brave face on for when his leg was blown off while he was in front of his men but inside the surgery tent an altogether different man was often on the table. He honestly couldn't count the number of men that he'd seen cry during his time there and it lent credit to the way he was thinking about Sherlock now. Yes, having the flu wasn't as bad as losing a leg, but, to Sherlock who had never been ill before, it was enough to loosen whatever knot was inside of him, made him open up just a little bit to ask for help. To ask for the comfort of another human being when everything hurt and only the presence of another person would be enough to keep it all at bay.

If anything, John was mostly flattered that it was him Sherlock had chosen first, both for help with his illness and for coming to see him after his 'death'. Not very many people could say _that_ when it came to the self-confessed sociopath.

The sound of his mobile going off, a text, sounded abnormally loud in the stillness of Sherlock's bedroom and John couldn't stop himself from flinching slightly, watching Sherlock to make sure the noise hadn't woken him. Thankfully the other man was fast asleep, so much so that John chanced easing his hand from Sherlock's so he could retrieve his phone from his back trouser pocket, the screen lighting up and displaying who had contacted him.

**Text from: Mycroft**

**To: John**

**Date: 12/12/2013, Time: 11:36**

**Hello John. How is my little brother doing? **

John frowned at the message, not because it was Mycroft contacting him or the fact that Mycroft had known Sherlock was alive, but because it was the last person he wanted to speak with, text or no. Of course the infuriating man would know that Sherlock had turned up last night at stupid o'clock in the morning; Mycroft had ears and eyes everywhere in London when he wanted to. The only thing Mycroft couldn't know was exactly what had happened in the flat in the last twelve hours since Sherlock's return, purely because, once they knew about them, both John and Sherlock had scoured the entire apartment to remove the cameras that had been placed there.

A small, smug smile curved John's lips, just imagining the frustration that it must have caused Mycroft not being able to spy on them anymore.

**Text from: Mycroft**

**To: John**

**Date: 12/12/2013, Time: 11:37**

**I know you never stay in this late on a Friday, John. Would you like me to send for you so we can have a more personal discussion?**

No, John did not want to have another 'personal discussion'. The last time he'd seen Mycroft before Sherlock's funeral, he'd wanted to put his fist through the other man's face when he'd found out that Mycroft had sold out his own brother to Moriarty for information. The actual day of the funeral was no better, John keeping at least an arm's distance away from Mycroft when they met to give each other their condolences. Trust was hard to give, even harder to give again when it was broken, and Mycroft had managed to fill a hole the size of Sherlock's grave with distrust.

Reluctantly, he texted back.

**Text from: John**

**To: Mycroft**

**Date: 12/12/2013, Time: 11:40**

**Hello, Mycroft. That will not be necessary. Both Sherlock and I are fine, thank you. **

Another smirk crossed John's face before he added another line.

**To make yourself useful, could you please deliver the following:**

He proceeded to list the items he'd need over the next couple of days, including a food run and medical supplies, knowing that Mycroft would oblige the message and have the courtesy not to tab it for him to pay later. He figured that the other man owed him that much by keeping Sherlock's plan a secret, whatever the reasons Sherlock had for making his brother abide the order. As unlikely as it sounded, a small part of him knew that Mycroft would have told him what Sherlock was planning unless Sherlock had ordered him otherwise, but he had yet to find out the reasons behind it.

It would need to wait until Sherlock was better though and patience was something that John had never had any trouble keeping.

Once Mycroft had texted him back with the affirmative he was hoping for, delivery pending one hour, John turned his attention back to Sherlock, carefully easing his other arm out from beneath the man's weight when he found that it had gone to sleep. Sherlock did move then, reaching up with both hands to clasp his pillow and drag it down so he was hugging it, murmuring quietly before stilling again, disappearing back into his slumber. Watching the entire action made John want to wrap his arms around Sherlock again, made him want to take the place of the pillow that Sherlock was clinging to, and that thought on its own was enough to give him pause. _'Certainly not something I'd have thought before.'_

He didn't let himself worry about it too much, putting it down to the fact that, like this, Sherlock was nothing less than adorable, or at least that's what John thought one of Sherlock's fans might say if they were here, and John's own fascination with the sleeping detective was enamoured with the sight of a comfortable Sherlock, something that he hadn't seen before.

It was an easy decision to make, wanting to see Sherlock like this again when he was feeling better. He looked so much more at ease with himself and his surroundings, more natural, and John couldn't help but wish that perhaps, if Sherlock's childhood had been different, maybe his life as a whole could have been happier, if not as completely dull when work was quiet or as interesting when a serial murderer was on the run. The only thing that stopped John from making that wish a reality was one that was purely selfish and one that Sherlock was probably approve of.

Before he'd met Sherlock, he'd told his psychiatrist that nothing happened to him. Certainly nothing worth blogging on the Internet about for people to read and, at the time, going into any detail about the war and his injury was too personal, too close for comfort. He'd still had his psychosomatic limb on a leg that hadn't been touched down to being shot in his left shoulder and was trying to find a way to live in a city that he had no sure means of being able to.

Until he met Sherlock Holmes.

Whether he liked it or not, Sherlock had blazed into his life from the moment he met him, with barely five minutes passing until the other man was comparing personal habits and arranging times for them to go and look at their, now current, flat.

The next twenty-four hours were at once a blur and the clearest moments he could remember. His limp was cured when they'd chased the taxi driver through London, he'd found the danger he craved from the war with the consulting detective, and, most importantly, something was now _happening_ to him.

John hadn't been lying when he'd told Sherlock's headstone that he was alone and that he owed him so much. Sherlock had brought him to life, shown him the excitement that could be found in the everyday world and he was hard-pressed to find it anywhere else. Having the other man appear on his doorstep last night had been both surreal and the best moment of John's life since the Fall and the child in him was jumping up and down with excitement, already waiting for the next case, the next big adventure that they could solve.

He just wondered whether the Sherlock he was seeing now would be up to it.

Happy with his own deductions, and feeling a bit of flare for the new side of Sherlock that had made an appearance, he decided it would be a good idea to grab his sketch pad and a pencil so he could draw what was in front of him. He'd never had the opportunity before, what with Sherlock being dead and all, so he wanted to make the most of it while the other man couldn't berate him for doing so.

John carefully eased his way from the bed, making sure to tuck the quilt down after him so Sherlock wouldn't feel the chill, and scarpered quickly to the living room where his drawing materials were. The ones on the table already would be enough, folding the A4 sketch pad under his arm and grabbing a sharpened pencil and rubber with one hand before heading back to Sherlock's room. Sherlock hadn't moved from the last position John had seen him in, which pleased him immensely, and he inched his way back around the bed until he was seated cross-legged next to Sherlock, his pad balanced on one knee and his pencil thoughtfully having the end of it chewed while he considered his subject.

From this angle, John could see the way Sherlock's fringe rested partially over his eyes and how his hands had a hold of the pillow he was wrapped around, so he decided to start there. The HB pencil allowed just the right amount of smoothness he wanted for the picture but also rubbed out easily, allowing him to use his vertical, horizontal and contact lines to get the proportions of Sherlock's face and hands right. These were done quickly and soon John was in the middle of finishing the guidelines he would need so that he could add more detail later.

Throughout the planning stage Sherlock remained motionless, a perfect study, and the drawing was coming to life as surely as the person it was portraying, beautiful and effortless. The pencil was working on the curls of Sherlock's fringe, emphasizing the twists and darkness of his hair, Sherlock's eye (that could be seen from John's angle), closed with his eyelashes seeming to almost rest on the man's prominent cheek bones. A few alterations were made to the hair to balance the overall tone that could be seen in the light of the room, still mostly dark from where the blinds were closed, and once that was done he started working on Sherlock's hands.

_Hands are resting, cold, hard pavement underneath them, no pillows to be wrapped around._

His hand jolted, a line jarring across the page, and John swore quietly, using his rubber to erase the offending line before starting again.

_Hair across his face… _

_Can't see his face… _

_Can't see anything. _

Another line. His lips pursed, John again rubbed out the unwanted line, forcing himself to concentrate.

_A splash of crimson on the floor, around his head, in his hair, sticky, clinging. _

_Eyes are open now, not asleep._

The pencil stopped.

_Not asleep._

The page was blurry in front of him, fuzzy, he couldn't focus. _'Why can't I see anything?'_

_Dead. _

_Sherlock's dead._

A full body shudder wracked its way through him, the paper under his hands becoming wet, small drops landing on his fingers sporadically. _'Crying. I'm crying.'_

The tears morphed into sobs all on their own, his hand dropping the pencil so he could press it over his mouth, keeping them inside, trapping them. He couldn't let them loose, not here, had to escape, retreat to a safe place, where the bad thoughts couldn't reach him. The pad was flung to one side along with the pencil and rubber but the noise they made hardly gave him pause as he rushed from the bedroom and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it.

The door had a comforting solidness against his back as he slid down it, his hands reaching up to his face to hide his eyes as the shaking began anew, the sobs forcing their way past a throat that felt blocked. He couldn't breathe with it, this pressure in his throat and behind his eyes, choking, silenced, but inside his head, he was screaming.

_'Sherlock!'_

_To be continued_

**A****/N: Inspiration for part six came from 'The Scientist' by Coldplay, featuring Sherlock and John's relationship 'from the start' (YouTube). Warning: you may / will need tissues if you watch it. **


	7. Chapter 7

Sounds of an Artist

**D****isclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**Warnings: Past drug abuse.**

Part Seven

Sherlock's POV

The noise of a door slamming wasn't the sort of thing Sherlock was looking for in a wake-up call but the sound of the bathroom door when it was forced into position and locked shocked him from what little sleep that he'd managed to get. Blearily, he wondered whether or not they were under attack, but the lack of noise from the rest of the apartment disproved the hypothesis (added with the knowledge that he knew he'd covered his tracks _very_ carefully so no one could have followed him back here to cause any trouble anyway), making Sherlock question exactly what it was that had caused such an outburst.

The residual warmth behind him told Sherlock that John was no longer beside him, the feel of the quilts against his back telling him that John had the forethought to tuck him in before leaving. His clock on the bedside table showed that the time was twenty-six minutes past twelve, almost an hour and half after Sherlock had succumbed to his tiredness, so it was reasonable to assume that John needed to relieve himself and thought the best time to do it would be when Sherlock was asleep. It didn't explain why John had slammed the door with so little apparent care for his welfare though, having taken so much time to get him comfortable in the first place and leaving him to rest when the need presented itself. The situation was therefore urgent and took precedence over whatever Sherlock was feeling at that point; a deduction that did not please him in the slightest if only for the emotions that it made him feel, his own insecurities taking the opportunity to belittle and degrade him whenever possible.

He rolled over on his mattress, carefully listening to his body's signals in case he needed to make use of the bucket next to his bed, wincing only marginally when muscles overworked from his sickness responded to the movement. The feel of something sharp dug into his left hand side, stalling his roll while he shifted his left hand underneath him to fish out the cause of the discomfort. Although the light in the room was shaded and his eyes still hurt from his headache, Sherlock could see quite clearly that it was John's sketch pad, the one that had been on the table in the living room, and that it was turned to a page that he'd seen before. Resting the pad on his legs for a moment, he slowly eased himself up into a half reclining position on his pillows, trying to keep himself from jolting around too much, before picking the pad back up for a closer look.

The picture Sherlock was looking at was the one that he'd seen roughly drawn out by John last night, except that it was now fully completed, signed the twelfth of December with John's signature in the bottom right hand corner, the same signature as the ones on the wall. The view was from the left window in the living room, the detail of the net curtain being pulled back to the right on the page showing John's location as he watched Sherlock walking up the street towards the flat. Even though the night had been dimly lit with the street lights at the time, John had still managed to capture a surprising amount of detail whilst keeping a dreamlike quality to Sherlock's form as it made its way to the front door. He assumed that the blurriness around the edge of his frame was intentional; there was no way that John could have known that what he was seeing wasn't a product of his own imagination and, like the good artist that Sherlock was beginning to understand, he'd kept his state of mind a prominent feature of the drawing, a perspective that allowed a glimpse into what had inspired him at that moment.

Sherlock felt conflicted when he saw just how human John had made him look; the way his hands were bunched up in his coat pockets, avoiding the bitter cold of a December morning, his chin tucked down into his scarf to avoid the wind, his coat blowing out behind him with the force of it.

There wasn't anything in the picture that showed him as the consulting detective that he'd once been, Sherlock realised. The man in the drawing was just a man trying to keep warm whilst making his way home, just like any other normal person would have done. Somehow, even after all that Sherlock had put him through, John was still able to find the humanity in him and he didn't know how to feel about it, his own memories of recent events making him feel decidedly less human and more animal, where each day was a test of survival and each emotion was securely locked away lest it became a weakness, a distraction from his goal.

Sherlock set the pad down on his lap, tracing his right index finger over John's signature twice, measuring the flow and pressure of the pen that John had used before setting the pad to one side and looking, unfocused, at the ceiling in an attempt to still his mind. Which was impossible really, given the circumstances.

Sherlock had never experienced a moment of silence in his life; his very nature wouldn't allow it, his own curiosity working against him and making any sensation of peace both illusive and frustratingly outside of his reach. When times were quiet, times were dull; he'd said the same to Mrs Hudson on the night when John had left him to sleep on Sarah's sofa. Dull and hateful. That had been before Moriarty though, in all his insane glory, and, as much as Sherlock thrived on the challenges set by the twisted consulting criminal, he wasn't sure that the victory he'd achieved was worth the choices he'd had to make in order to reach it. It wasn't just the influenza, as inconvenient as it was, but a myriad of other consequences that he hadn't had the sense to foresee when he'd jumped off of Bart's roof. Assumptions had been made, yes, about what would happen to the people that he left behind, but they were poor excuses when you had the real thing in front of you and he didn't let himself entertain them any further.

Especially when it came to John.

He couldn't hear any noise coming from the bathroom even though he knew John was still in there, deciding to take it as a good sign that he couldn't hear the sound of any retching on John's part which would have been an pressing matter indeed. Sherlock knew that the first thirty-six hours after any flu-related sickness meant the individual in question was highly contagious, so the odds of the doctor catching it were high at this point. Although he didn't understand why John didn't just use the bucket if that were the case. He didn't have any particular claim to it and, at present, he had no need for it, so why had John fled to the bathroom like the Hound was snapping at his heels?

When the bathroom door was unlatched and opened he didn't hold out any hope that the answers would be given to him out of choice, and when John appeared in his bedroom doorway it seemed that he had guessed right. Although the light in the room had increased in the time that he'd slept, all he could make out was the puffiness around John's eyes that hadn't been there before and the deep blush on his cheeks. The tell-tale hitch in his breathing. He couldn't tell whether or not John's eyes were bloodshot from the distance between them, but the physical signs were certainly pointing him in that direction and his instinct was quick to conclude that John had rushed into the bathroom because he'd been crying.

Still, it seemed rude to point it out so he didn't make any such attempt, even though the way John was holding himself meant that he thought Sherlock was going to do just that. If John had any sense though, he would have realised by now that Sherlock had changed in some fairly fundamental ways. One of them being that once you made friends you had to work hard to keep them that way and keep them safe, something he knew he'd been abysmal at considering the position he'd inadvertently put John in previously. Sherlock also knew that he had his own share of flaws and while most people were more than happy to point them out to him, John had only ever done so under duress when Sherlock's own attitude and actions had forced the issue. John hadn't gained anything from the confrontations they'd had and Sherlock would be damned if he was going to start up any now. Patience was often rewarded, a hard lesson that had been drummed into him when he'd been hunting what remained of Moriarty's network, and now he wasn't under any pressure, any time constraints to get a job done. When John was ready, he'd open up all on his own.

Or at least Sherlock hoped that he would.

Still standing in the doorway where Sherlock could see him, John cleared his throat and used his right hand to wipe his eyes, the after-effects of overpowering emotions taking their toll on any composure that he was trying to grasp. A welcome distraction was provided when John's mobile flashed, the noise of the text alert breaking any tension and prompting John into action. The walk to Sherlock's bed was steady; the hand that reached for the mobile resting in John's jean pocket was free of tremors, so when John announced that Mycroft was approximately two minutes away from the flat Sherlock didn't find it hard to bristle at the mention of his brother's name.

"Why is Mycroft coming here?" he grumbled, frowning when John didn't respond to him right away. "John?"

The other man looked up from where he was responding to the message. "He's bringing us some supplies, Sherlock. I asked him to before you get that look on your face."

The look on John's face told him that he'd not succeeded in trying to hide his own displeasure. "I was going to say that I don't need my brother looking after me, but as you've gone ahead and requested his assistance there is very little I can do about it."

John laughed. "There's very little you can do about anything at the moment anyway. Don't worry though. I won't let him come in here."

"And who says I'm staying in here?" Sherlock found that manoeuvring his way to a sitting position was easier when he was already half reclined, although he couldn't stop his hands straying to his ribs when they pained him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? No, don't try to do it on your own, here, let me help you." Trying to persuade John he was all right and could manage on his own was futile when the army doctor was in charge, but he did find that he was grateful for the assistance even though it didn't help John in his cause to keep Sherlock bedridden. He'd just made it easier for Sherlock to swing his legs from under the quilts and into a proper sitting position, the motion slowed down when his head spun alarmingly. The bucket was pushed between his thighs without him asking and once again it served its intended purpose despite Sherlock being certain that there was nothing left in his body for him to give.

He spat into the bucket, once, twice, grimacing at the ache in his teeth where the stomach acid reacted with them before handing John the bucket to dispose of the contents. His water was pressed into his hands before John left, a reminder to keep his fluid levels up, small, careful draws of the liquid soothing the burn in his throat. He almost whimpered when he realised he was running out, the last few drops still sweet on his tongue as the glass was held loosely in the clasp of his right hand. He would have to ask John for more later.

The sound of the bucket being placed on the floor next to him almost made him jump; he hadn't heard John come back into the room and he tried not to let it bother him. The constant chasing and hiding that his life had revolved around for almost three years had ended but old habits die hard deaths; Sherlock didn't think he would ever get used to anyone managing to sneak up on him now. John's smile did wonders for his nerves though, even with the evidence of his tears so close that Sherlock could reach out and touch them if he wanted to. Petechial had appeared just under John's eyes where he had closed them, clenched them, the pressure around his temples and in his eye sockets causing small blood vessels to burst until they left dark half circles underneath them, like someone had tried to punch him in both eyes and only managed to hit him with one half of their fist. _'Also a symptom of more virulent conditions;_ _Vasculitis, Ebola, Scarlet Fever, Typhus. Unlikely given patient's medical history.'_

"If you're so adamant about getting up now, which I completely disagree with by the way, are you able to walk or do you need me to carry you?" John had his hands on his hips, completely in character with the fussing mother hen that Sherlock now envisioned John to be given the way he was acting towards him. Yes, he would just need an apron around his waist and a tea towel slung over one shoulder to complete the image. Despite his humour at that moment, he kept his features carefully blank to hide the physical reaction that John's question had prompted; his pulse had elevated, his breathing had become shallow until he corrected it and his eyes were on the cusp of widening; all involuntary responses that showed him just how much he liked the idea of it, John's arms wrapped around him again, keeping him safe.

It also spurred him into making the decision to try and walk for himself, which he knew was an entirely illogical idea given how weak he felt in both his mind and body, but his own stubbornness and self-sense of pride wanted to prove to John that he wasn't incapable, that he could still look after himself, and one little bout of influenza wasn't going to change that.

He saw it on John's face when the other man knew he was going to try and walk to the living room on his own; John had pursed his lips, his eyes focussing on Sherlock's movements and keeping his hands close by just in case he had to stop him from falling. Sherlock felt his own jaw clench with determination, telling his body to wake up from the hunched position he was in, his hands keeping hold of the mattress in a white-knuckle grip to keep himself from pitching forward onto the floor.

Even though his body knew what was going to happen, and John obviously knew what was going to happen, it didn't stop his brain sending the electrical signals to his legs and arms that made him stand up, the muscles bunching and flexing as they fought to carry Sherlock's mediocre weight while also fighting against the aches and pains of flu. It was a battle that was short-lived and as his knees buckled beneath him John's hands caught him around his waist, pulling his body flush against John's for support while John sat him on the edge of his bed again. Frustration was an angry wave in Sherlock's blood; he could feel it behind his eyes and in his hands, consuming him until the tension released him with a choked sob, his fingers scrabbling at the body in front of him for purchase while he buried his face in the crook of one elbow where John's arms were still wrapped around him. He could feel his body shaking, the effort required to stand clearly too much to for him to handle right now, and his mind rendered useless under the emotional barrage he was being flooded in.

"I hate this, John. I really, really hate this…" Sherlock kept repeating himself, over and over while John remained silent, quietly soothing him by wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and gently rubbing. Careful not to dislodge John from his attentions, Sherlock rubbed his eyes against the jumper they were pressed against, huffing. "And I'm bored."

John's chuckle vibrated through the tips of Sherlock's fingers where they were pressed to John's back, the fibres of his jumper catching on the rough calluses on Sherlock's hands and making them twitch, irritated. "I'm not telling you where the gun is," John said quietly. "I still haven't finished paying Mrs Hudson for the damage you did to the wall yet."

Sherlock huffed again. "How can you _still_ be paying for that? I thought it was dealt with before…"

"No, it was added to the list of damages done to the building and furniture not owned by us and caused by you," John replied. "Thankfully it's the last thing on the list and, as I'm not paying Mrs Hudson any rent right now, any money I give her is going towards the cost of the repairs." John paused. "If I let her take down the pictures to repair it, that is."

Sherlock smiled, bringing his hands down to wrap them around John's waist. Nothing further was said and he felt John's attention shift to other priorities when the man straightened in front of him, his hand remaining on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Did you still want to move to the living room?" John asked. "Does the sofa sound good?"

"At the very least I'll be able to keep an eye on my brother there," Sherlock replied, smirking. "I'm surprised another world war hasn't broken out since I left actually; that little red button must taunt him endlessly."

"The fact that a world war hasn't erupted in the face of your demise just proves why I am in charge of it in the first place," Mycroft drawled, stepping into the bedroom, his umbrella making a customary appearance even though the weather was dry and his keen gaze taking in the scene before him. "Well, isn't this heart-warming. You are aware that John is your doctor first and foremost, aren't you, Sherlock. Although I might be wrong."

"Very wrong, Mycroft," John bit out, shifting away from Sherlock so that the detective could see his brother.

Mycroft's face lit up and the younger of the two siblings knew that that was just what the other had wanted to hear. "Ah, of course. Might I enquire as to what is first then? Blogger, perhaps…"

"Stop fishing for information, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, his patience stretched thin. "You've never been any good at it." He looked up at John. "And how exactly did he get into the flat?" When John didn't answer him but instead gave him a grave look, Sherlock's eyes hardened, his own calculations coming to an answer he didn't like. "Oh no. You didn't… You let him have a _key!_"

Mycroft chuckled, both John and Sherlock turning to glare at the older man as he swung his umbrella in one hand and shuffled where he stood. "Dear brother, do you honestly believe that our John would let me have a key, of all people. No, it was much simpler in fact. Both John and Mrs Hudson agreed that their safety had been compromised and I offered to change the locks for them, free of charge of course. It was an easy affair to order four keys instead of the three requested. One can never be too careful these days."

"Evidently not," Sherlock said, his voice stern, uncompromising, bristling at the tone in Mycroft's voice. _'John is not 'ours'.'_

"I would rather say that, given the circumstances, me being in possession of a key was more of a help than a hindrance, wouldn't you say? It does appear that John is going to have his hands full of you, Sherlock, do forgive the pun, so who else is going to unpack the items that John so eloquently requested?" Mycroft's smile was smug, gloating, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel that his brother was lucky in this instance. If he'd had the strength he would have been up already and slapping the offending look off of Mycroft's face.

"Not you I gather," John said, moving away from Sherlock to turn and face Mycroft directly. Sherlock lamented the loss of John's hand on the back of his neck and added it to the list of grievances his brother had caused him. "Why don't you make yourself scarce for two minutes, Mycroft," John was saying. "I'm sure-"

"John." Sherlock reached out and touched John's arm, stopping the other man mid-sentence and making John look at him, surprised. He knew what John was trying to do, to spare him showing any emotion in front of his brother and to keep him comfortable, but he knew what he had to say and getting the words out was more difficult than he'd anticipated. "If Mycroft was going to use my weakness against me he would have already done it by now and with something far worse." He paused and looked at Mycroft, the silent communication between the brothers an acceptance of what was going to pass. "Mycroft was there during my addiction, John."

"Your, wait, what… Your _addiction?_" John's tone was incredulous. "I thought it was just recreational, your past drug use. I'd been with you for eighteen months, Sherlock, you never used anything during that time and I never saw any signs that you'd been using."

"In this you are correct, but when I was still living with my family the drug habit was less recreational and more … escapism." Sherlock steeled himself. "I almost OD'd, John, when I was sixteen. Mycroft found me in my bedroom; I was unconscious and I'd stopped breathing. He revived me and took me to hospital."

It was obvious that John wanted to say something but when he opened his mouth nothing came out of it, the shock of Sherlock's statement immobilising any words that were there. Sherlock expected that John would start to rant now, telling him how stupid he'd been, that there were other options even if he hadn't seen them, anything to rewrite a history that could not be undone. So when John turned from him towards his brother and said, "thank you," in a tone that underlined his gratitude and praise for Mycroft, he was more than surprised. And relieved. No arguments today.

Mycroft inclined his head in acceptance of the praise and looked at Sherlock again, the memory of the event still sharp, focussed between them like the knife edge they'd both danced on for years now. As much as Sherlock belittled his brother and would often see how far he could push Mycroft's seemingly boundless patience, a connection had been undoubtedly forged and strengthened that day, vaster than the blood they shared and the mother that had given birth to them. Love had always been there, Sherlock had never doubted it, but it was still possible to love someone and not bond with them. This was something different. Always there, just under the surface, underneath the rivalry and the scorn that flew across the miles. A thread, small and thin, but unbreakable and completely underestimated. He could almost see it shimmering between them, reflecting the light and gleaming, like a single strand of spider silk.

When he broke the eye contact to look at John again, Sherlock could see that John could feel the tension between them; no, not tension. It wasn't accurate. But he could certainly feel _something_ and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if the bond he shared with Mycroft could be easily translated to other people, obviously without the need of him almost overdosing to create it. When John looked at Sherlock again and he felt a shift in his body at the eye contact, in his awareness, he wondered if it hadn't been there already.

"As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Sherlock," Mycroft said, keeping his voice low, "I have other matters that require my attention just now. You will keep me appraised of his condition, won't you, John."

"Of course," John replied, looking back at Mycroft. "Is the shopping still downstairs?"

"I believe that one of my men has already unpacked and stored the items for you both," Mycroft answered. "Just in the normal places of course." He swung his umbrella up once so that it now rested on his shoulder, regarding them both for a moment before nodding his goodbye and leaving the flat, the echoes of his footsteps receding after him and leaving silence in their wake.

"Well," John said with a half-smile on his face. "Now that's over and done with…" and motioned towards Sherlock's body, asking permission to enter his personal space.

Sherlock nodded his acquiescence, shifting his arms around John's neck again so that when he was lifted up into John's arms he was stable. He immediately pressed his face into John's neck, breathing in his scent and making his body as small as possible to ease the load on John's shoulders and back. The walk to the living room was short and Sherlock released his hold on John when the other man lowered him to the sofa so that he was lying facing away from the windows, a small detail that showed John understood how the light was hurting Sherlock's eyes and was trying to shield himself from it. He'd closed his eyes when he was being carried to the sofa and he could hear the sounds of John in the flat, moving around and checking the location of the supplies that Mycroft had delivered before he returned, a glass being placed on the coffee table within easy reach of Sherlock's hand if he needed it.

"John?" The word was small, about as small as Sherlock felt when John stopped what he was doing and gave him his undivided attention, but he had to ask. "What were you doing before, when I was asleep?"

He hadn't asked John why he'd been crying and knew that the other man would pick up on the difference. Sherlock had meant it when he said he wouldn't pry and John had been with him long enough that he knew Sherlock liked direct answers to his direct questions. There never were any subtitles involved. "I was drawing you," John answered, perching on the edge of the sofa with his body turned towards Sherlock. "You were curled up with your pillow and I… I couldn't let the moment slip by. You looked so peaceful."

"Can I see it?" Sherlock asked, his eyes pleading with John, wanted to see himself the way John saw him, had never had the opportunity to observe himself as such, his mind was so busy.

Disappointment flared in him when John shook his head, but was quickly quietened with John elaborated. "It's not finished yet." He looked away from Sherlock for a moment, a resolution being made before turning back to him. "Did you want to watch me finish it? I can go and get it now if you like and we can finish it together."

Sherlock's breath stalled in his throat, the offer touching some unknown place inside him and making him happy and sad all at once. He curled up his legs beneath him and shifted sideways on the sofa until he was facing the coffee table, murmuring, "please," watching as John smiled again before bounding to the bedroom to retrieve his things.

John didn't take long; bringing the bucket back with him and placing it close by before sitting on the floor between the coffee table and the sofa with his knees drawn up so he could rest the pad on them, the pencil and rubber on the floor beside him. Sherlock drew himself up slightly, pressing his upper body against John's upper back so he could rest his chin on John's right shoulder, giving him an unobstructed view when John turned the page from the picture of him walking outside to the one where he had been asleep.

A small gasp from his mouth told John all he needed it to regarding what he thought of the image thus far. He could still see the planning lines John had drawn to aid him but they didn't detract from the effect that he could see John had been going for. His hair had been completed, strewn about his pillow and across his temple, his face and hands being the last things that needed further detail added until they too were finished. Sherlock's eyes lovingly traced the lines that made up his image, absorbing them until they were imprinted on him; even the one line that jarred across the page didn't take anything away from its beauty, only showed the depth of emotion John must have been feeling at that moment for it to affect him enough to make a difference.

The difference was easily rectified, the rubber erasing it until it was as though it had never existed, and when John began to finish what he'd started both men were quiet, still, the sound of the pencil and their breathing binding them together in a way that words never could.

_To be continued_

**A/N: Inspiration for this part came from the 'In Time' soundtrack by Craig Armstrong. The strings and piano of this music really fitted what I was going for in this chapter so please do listen to it if you wish; then maybe you can find out how my mind works :-) **


	8. Chapter 8

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**No warnings for this part.**

Part Eight

Sherlock's POV

Time, Sherlock knew, was an entirely human concept; a tool to measure out the days in a year, the seconds in an hour, an aid to few and a hindrance to many. For each moment to be planned; captured and tamed to one's own hand before it slipped away, lost and forgotten in the realm of non-memory, a vast and unreachable place. A friend too little during those stolen moments of joy and happiness; forever battling with the rise of the sun on a Monday morning to a job you hated, the family you wished you could do more for, had more time for, the rising threat of a midlife crisis when you realised just how much of this human invention had passed you by with seemingly nothing to show for it. One of mankind's greatest creations; used every day and hated or loved, circumstantial, all of it, but something that now couldn't be removed.

Sherlock himself had used it on many occasions when completing his investigations, the case of the Blind Banker being the scene of two prime examples. Firstly, allowing him to deduce when the numbers were painted which then led him to two things; who was around at that hour and who was meant to see it visually. The second had been his old friend, Seb Wilkes, when he'd travelled around the world twice and neglected to reset his watch to the correct date, to John's avid interest and amusement once Sherlock had shared his musings. He didn't think he'd had one case where a clock hadn't proved useful, from finding out where a person had come from due to the residual rain on their coat down to the bombs Moriarty had strapped to his victims, their timers counting down the seconds to their demise had he failed to work out the puzzle pieces which had been left for him.

Now, nestled against John with his chin resting on the other man's shoulder, time itself seemed to have stopped, unimportant, the slow tempo of the space surrounding him matching the purposefulness of John's pencil as it finished the last few details on the drawing, _his_ drawing. The minute or the hour didn't matter; he felt that they had all the time in the world in their grasp, existing just for them during their shared breaths, the feel of John close to him, John's presence and calm adding to the peace that Sherlock could feel building inside of him.

Sherlock found that he didn't want it to end, this quiet lull between storms, the first being his departure and the pain it had caused, the second the knowledge that John was hurting, the cause of which John had yet to divulge (although John's behaviour just recently, coupled with the incriminating mark on his drawing, led Sherlock to only one conclusion, but he would be patient – he had a promise to keep).

His relationship with John had always been far from normal, Sherlock thought; dangerous and exciting, yes, but never that, never what other people could call a typical friendship. This though, this was new, different, but in a good way and John hadn't given any signs that he thought otherwise.

At some point during the drawing, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around John's upper body with his palms resting on John's chest, an almost loose hug, and John hadn't removed his hands in protest. Had merely shifted around to accommodate Sherlock's arms so that they were underneath his own and flashed him a brief smile before returning to his drawing as though nothing were amiss, nothing at all strange about being hugged by his recently deceased flatmate. Sherlock had barely allowed himself to breathe when unconscious thought had prompted the move, worried that John would mistake any intention behind it, but John's smile had removed any doubts and irrational fears, making Sherlock compress the man in his arms for a moment before relaxing the hold, content to observe as he was brought to life as surely as if John were his Creator, his divine intervention. In a way, he supposed that John had been, or at least they had prompted the start of life in each other. With John so recently returned from Afghanistan, having seen far too much trouble, injured and invalided, and himself rapidly losing any hope of finding someone who would be willing to flat-share with him because of his eccentricities, Sherlock could only conclude that on some level they were meant to meet. It had worked out too well for it to be anything else.

He'd never considered himself religious or fatalistic in any sense of the words, but his meeting with John had seemed too coincidental, too well-thought out, making Sherlock at least question the possibility that somehow their wavelengths were intertwined, that a bond like the one he shared with his brother had already been forged across space and time to lead him to the person who understood him and accepted him when all others had left and discarded him. When he'd been on the rooftop at Bart's, the thought had pierced him that he was the one leaving now; he was the one who was jeopardising any happiness that he'd found in his short time with John, but that it was better than watching John die when he could have stopped it. His heart had spoken then, shouting across the distance with a passion and a ferocity that had stunned him. Above any preconceptions that he had had about how his life was to end, about his work or his livelihood which was in tatters, none of it had mattered when faced with the threat of a life without John, and Moriarty had known it. Had seen it, Sherlock's heart, and used it to his full advantage, something that Sherlock could never have predicted happening to him until he met a certain Dr John Watson.

A life saver in every possible way and someone that Sherlock admired beyond the soldier risking his life for his country or the doctor treating sick patients even with the chance of there being a contagion. He knew deep down inside that well of untapped emotion that he'd locked away, he loved John. _'I love him, as one loves another, whom one simply cannot do without.'_

The revelation hadn't floored him as he'd once thought it would; if he could jump off a building and fake his death for someone, it certainly went a long way to prove that he had feelings for that person, cared about them at least, and was definitely invested in their future, with or without him, whatever was necessary. It didn't stop him from hoping that 'necessary' meant a life they shared, not a life spent apart, and the signs so far were good. He'd never been a person to count his chickens, but the expression was apt in this case. He didn't need to know how many birds he would have at the end of it, this respite from the pain and the grief; the fact that there were eggs at all was enough for now.

Like all good things, the moment couldn't last, John's body shifting as he put the drawing out in front of the both of them and displayed it as a completed work. Sherlock was spellbound, one hand reaching out reverently to touch the piece, tracing over his hair, his face, his hands, their depiction so much more than pencils and paper because this was how John saw him, not the man he perceived himself to be. When he spoke, it was a near whisper, like if he spoke too loudly it would shatter whatever was between them. "It's not quite finished, John."

John didn't react the way Sherlock expected him to, with anger and question; he just smiled and turned his head to look at Sherlock. "Was there something I missed?" Also just as quiet, laced with humour.

"No, not at all," he replied. "Just needs a little something extra." He motioned for the pencil and the pad, using John's assistance to get into a sitting position on the sofa before going to a clear bit on the page, the lighter side of his pillow in this case where the light had touched it. In a steady hand, he wrote down a short sentence in small, elegant script and passed back the pad, watching as John read the words first before speaking them aloud.

"'Peace is when time doesn't matter as it passes by,'" John said, the words a soft murmur on his tongue. "That's … it's beautiful, Sherlock. Did you think of this?"

Sherlock shook his head, smiling at John's surprise. "I too am also inspired by some of the things that normal people say, John. This was once said by a lady called Maria Schell, an Austrian actress during the early nineteen-fifties. She starred alongside Gary Cooper and Marlon Brando during the highlights of her career and I believe that this quote of hers is rather apt, wouldn't you say?"

John nodded as though committing the details of the actress to memory before looking down at the drawing and smiling broadly, his eyes afire when he looked at Sherlock again. "Yes, I agree completely. This is just what it needed."

Sherlock honestly couldn't say what had inspired him to finish the drawing with that particular quote. Well, that wasn't strictly true; he knew what had inspired him, the atmosphere of the living room still subdued, a stillness permeating the air around them even with the fact that they were now speaking to each other. Everything felt relaxed, his body, his mind, and he knew even without his deductions that John was feeling the same. It was something that they had created together but he still hadn't been sure how well the quote would be received. He was, technically, marring another artist's work with his own impression of the piece in question, but, when he thought about it, John had said that he wanted them to finish the drawing together. Sherlock had merely made his own mark, claiming a part of it for his own, just as he believed John had intended him to by allowing him to watch it being finished in the first place.

He had no idea what the time was and for once he didn't care. That was at the forefront of his mind and what had made him think of the quote originally. When he was much younger, and his mother had been on speaking terms with him, she had told him the quote once whilst they were watching 'The Hanging Tree'. His mother had been obsessed with tales of adventure and grandeur and 'The Hanging Tree' was one such film that allowed her those illusions due to Maria Schell's performance. The quote had come out of nowhere and he'd disregarded it, too obsessed with observing people and things that it was parked to one side and almost forgotten about. As he'd gotten older, and his life had become a bit more dangerous, he found himself wondering at that concept that people called peace, which to him had meant boring.

Yet now it was different. He really didn't care what was going on outside the flat; it could have been as interesting as another one of Moriarty's puzzles or as dull as Mycroft's endless attempts to turn him into something useful for the British Government. It wouldn't have mattered. Above all else, Sherlock had wanted to put that across to John without sounding too sentimental; there was something to be said about contributing to a man's art, something solid and meaningful, rather than just saying the words and hoping that they made sense. Too many variables and this was a moment that he couldn't be allowed to tarnish by fumbling up what it was he wanted to say, and he knew John would find it more significant this way than if he had just spoken the words aloud.

Now John had proof of how Sherlock felt and that was important.

Rather than going to get a pen, the same as he'd done with the other pictures, John took the pencil back from Sherlock and signed and dated the drawing before resting the pad on the coffee table in front of them and sitting beside him on the sofa. Sherlock drew his legs up, giving John more room, and regarded him over the tops of his knees. The silence that fell between them didn't feel awkward in the slightest and Sherlock had the feeling that neither of them wanted to break it. This understanding of each other had been gone for too long and, now that some semblance of it had returned, they didn't want to do or say anything that would scare it off. Sherlock thought it important to note, however, that there wasn't any tension, any strain.

Over and over since his return, John kept on surprising him with his general attitude, with his behaviour towards him; the thought had crossed Sherlock's mind more than once that John really should have hit him by now, illness or not, but it still hadn't happened and he now wondered if it ever would. On top of that, John still hadn't shown any sign that there was anything he wanted to say to Sherlock about the Fall, about how it made him feel afterwards or his sudden reappearance. If anything, John had acted like nothing had happened at all, which made Sherlock pause and reflect on it.

Repression of memories wasn't something that he'd ever done personally; every memory he could recall was stored away, an experience for any future events that may require its retrieval. It had helped him to work past the more stressful areas of his life; he hadn't shied away from his addiction and the consequences concerning Mycroft's revival of him when he'd almost died, instead using it and allowing it to make him stronger.

John, on the other hand, had had too much experience with repressing his own memory, his dreams haunted by the war and by being shot. He wasn't sure that his fall was ranked as being as traumatic as John's very close brush with death but the annoying part was that he couldn't be sure.

Sherlock had to keep reminding himself that he'd not been back two days yet and last night he'd not been coherent enough to hear whether or not John was having a nightmare. Before, in the other life, he would have been awake either thoughtfully composing or finishing off an experiment when John's night terrors would reach down to him from John's bedroom, often a single shout, and just once the sound of John falling out of his bed with a muted curse, resulting in him limping about the flat the next morning as he got ready for work. It had been an unspoken truce between them that the incident was never mentioned, but Sherlock hadn't forgotten it.

No matter how much he wished it were otherwise, Sherlock knew he would just have to wait and be watchful of his companion.

When the evening arrived, the sun having set just before four o'clock*, Sherlock was still seated on the sofa and distracting himself by watching John make something to eat in the kitchen, although Sherlock had requested that it wasn't anything that would smell too strong just in case it made him heave again. His illness had subsided for the most part; he'd stopped vomiting at around three o'clock that afternoon and since then had been steadily getting through the water/sugar/salt concoction that John made him each time he ran out. His body still ached and his head throbbed on occasion but he certainly felt a lot better than he had that morning and John was insistent that he was on the road to recovery.

John came back to the living room and sat in his own chair, leaving Sherlock the sofa, balancing his plate of scrambled eggs on toast on his lap before beginning to tuck in. One mouthful, two, before John spoke. "Mrs Hudson has been away on holiday this week, just in case you didn't know. She'll be back tomorrow around mid-morning."

Sherlock tried to stifle a groan and failed. "Oh joy," he mumbled. "There isn't a chance that you'll make her wait until I'm better, is there?"

John smiled. "No, it's not that. It's more that she just lets herself in now and I've got in the habit of letting her. If I start changing my tune she'll know something's up."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Sherlock slid a hand over his eyes, sighing loudly. "I doubt that she'll take the news as well as you did." He lifted his hand and turned his head to look at John. "Fifty pounds; double or nothing that she faints. In the living room."

The knife and fork made a small clatter as they were put onto the plate, John finishing his meal before responding. "You're on." His eyes gleamed. "Another double or nothing if she faints in the first five seconds."

Sherlock nodded his agreement at the terms, his own eyes also shining with amusement at the expense of his favourite land-lady. _'How can I feel sorry for her when it's just too good to pass up? You don't die and rise from the dead every day.'_

John got up to put his plate and cutlery in the kitchen, Sherlock watching, fascinated, as the other man went about his daily routine which had barely changed when it came to the essentials. Everything was washed up and put away, the click of the kettle being put on reminding Sherlock of his craving for tea, the way John had made it for him, and now sorely missed. With things as they were it was another need that would have to wait but the end was in sight at least.

He picked up his own glass from the coffee table and took another sip of the water, eyes on John as the tea was made and brought back to the living room, the smell of it enough to set Sherlock's taste-buds aflame with want. John settled again into his own chair, sipping his tea and making himself comfortable with a shift and the crossing of his ankles. His eyes kept straying to Sherlock though, as though he wanted to say something and couldn't figure out a way to say it, whatever it was that was making him uncomfortable. It wasn't that Sherlock wasn't used to it, people feeling that way around him, and John always told him if he was having that effect, but it was odd that John didn't just come out with it the way he would have done previously. Yet he didn't interrupt, didn't start working out what it was because it didn't feel like it was necessary.

"How are you feeling now?" John asked him suddenly; it wasn't what he wanted to say, Sherlock knew it, but he felt that the question was going to lead to something else.

"Feeling much better now," he answered, curious. "Why do you ask?"

To John's credit, he didn't hold back. "I was wondering, you know, if you felt up to it later, whether you would be able to play some music … the way you used to."

Sherlock's eyes strayed to his violin that was still propped up against his chair, memories of fingers dancing over the strings and whole nights spent coaxing melodies from the instrument flickering through his mind quicker than he could pin them. He hadn't been able to take his violin with him when he left; John would have noticed something like that going missing so he'd been forced to leave it behind, making do with another violin that he'd found in a skip, the strings gone and the wood covered with mould. Replacing the strings had been easy and the work on the wood had taken the most time to repair but by the end of his solitude he had been able to play a small amount of decent Bach on the thing to some degree before it gave in completely.

His fingers twitched against his thighs, itching to feel the familiar weight of his violin in his hands, already mimicking the notes he'd need to play some of his favourite pieces. He also knew that it would be easier if he was standing though, able to move with the music, and he knew he wasn't strong enough just yet. The influenza was mostly to blame for that, but he knew it was also down to stupidity on his part as well. _'Should have taken better care of myself and I didn't.'_

John didn't allow him to reprimand himself too much though, already seeing the naked yearning on Sherlock's face. "Only when you're feeling better though, ok? It's been a long time and if I know you, which I do by the way, you'll want to savour it."

Sherlock grinned at John, absolutely _loving_ this, the banter between them that had brought him to tears at its loss when he left. He'd never been one to second guess himself, but it felt that he had to keep constantly reminding himself that he'd done was the right thing to do. _'I did the right thing. I can't believe anything else.'_

The remainder of the evening was spent in front of the telly, some abominable excuse for a detective show that Sherlock worked out within the first two minutes after seeing the crime scene. "Well it's obviously the gardener!" had been hurled at the screen numerous times to the obliviousness of the characters in it and John's incessant giggling hadn't helped one iota. Sherlock had accused John of putting the show on just to get a reaction out of him and the other man had freely admitted it, saying, "if the day comes when you can't work out a TV show you'll know that it's time to retire."

Sherlock had glared at John for _that_ little remark, but not too harshly.

Nightfall, the time for sleep, and Sherlock was very pleased that John didn't have to carry him to his room this time; admittedly he had needed assistance getting to his room by having one arm slung around John's shoulders, but Sherlock had been persistent in getting himself back to working order, even if his legs shook so badly that they'd had to stop once till he could get them back under control.

The pad with his drawing on had been clasped in Sherlock's free hand; he'd almost pleaded with John to let him take it with him in case the answer was no, but John hadn't questioned it and just asked him to put it to one side before he went to sleep lest he rolled on it in the night and ruined it, which Sherlock had readily agreed to.

He didn't ask if John was going to be getting into bed with him; the signs were all there that John was planning on staying up a little more to finish tidying up the flat before retiring to his own room. John had claimed that Sherlock needed the rest; that he would be able to do that better on his own and Sherlock hadn't pressured him into doing otherwise. As far as they were concerned he was back now and that was all that mattered. Things could go back to normal.

Sleep had come quickly, the exact moment when he dropped off a mystery, but he'd also trained himself to be a light sleeper (he'd had to in order to keep himself alive) so when a loud sob echoed from the room above his own Sherlock was wide awake. He'd been sleeping on his side and curled around his pillow, the same way as in his drawing, and rolled onto his back, eyes on the ceiling as more sounds came from John's bedroom. John obviously didn't realise how thin the walls or ceilings were when it came to sound and, although they weren't as loud as the first one that had woken him, the noise was unmistakable. The rhythmic, choked sounds of John in pain, coughing when he ran out of breath before making a high, keening noise, the pain trapping the sob in John's throat and forcing it into another form before the cycle began all over again.

Sherlock kept his breathing low so it didn't override the sounds, lowering his eyes away from the ceiling as his own throat clenched around the lump that had formed there, and slowly he began to doubt that, if this was the cost, maybe what he'd done hadn't been the right thing to do at all.

_To be continued_


	9. Chapter 9

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them. **

**Lyrics of 'My Immortal' belong to Evanescence, I make no profit from their usage here.**

**Warnings: angst, emotional trauma **

Part Nine

John had stopped crying at twenty-three minutes past one in the morning. Sherlock knew this because he'd been awake to hear when John stopped, the lights from his alarm clock shining their digits at him, the bright glow almost accusatory although he knew that it was just a reflection of his own thoughts at himself trying to find an outlet. Throughout the entire experience Sherlock had kept John's sketch pad clasped to his chest, his left hand gripping it with his picture facing towards the ceiling (he had promised not to damage it so was lying on his back with it), the index finger of his right hand lightly tracing the lines of his drawing by memory alone while he waited for John's sobs to subside.

Once John had finally settled into what would be a restless slumber, the quiet that overtook Sherlock's own room felt nothing less than oppressive. He didn't dare think that the sound of John's pain was preferable to it though, never in a million years. His more logical side confirmed that he was only feeling this way because of his own reaction to John's emotions and the overwhelming need to comfort them both from a hurt that he was responsible for, but he didn't know how to go about it, his own emotions making him feel weak and useless in a way that an illness never could. This was a break down from the inside out, each memory and thought tarred with a brush that he had never thought would have any power over him. Had analysed countless times and seen the consequences of in other individuals, unknown test subjects to his curious mind, but he was rapidly learning that emotion was not something to be trifled with and that it was completely unbiased. Race or language, age or gender; none of them mattered. Just as his perception of his own intelligence and supposed immunity to emotion didn't matter either.

How could he not _want_ to help, given the way they were obviously both feeling?

Sherlock turned his head on his pillow so he was facing towards his bedroom door that had been left ajar so that John could hear him in case he needed help. The faint light from the bulb on the staircase to John's room provided a small amount of illumination into his own room, allowing his mind to focus a little, and with marginal effort he cast his mind back to the time when John had put his CD player on less than two days ago.

He'd recognised the song 'My Immortal' by Evanescence, what little had been played before John had rushed to turn it off, and now that the fogginess from his sickness had mostly subsided (thanks to John's stringent care) he wanted to go back and listen to the rest of the music on that CD. John had put it on to help with his artwork, Sherlock had realised that straight away when he watched John go to his own Mind Palace, or a version thereof, the memory still sharp where it had been stored away.

'_Fingers twitching; possibly switching between materials and styles of drawing depending on the piece being created. Eyes closed allowing full concentration, head bowed to chest to increase comfort on neck and shoulder muscles during process of creation. _

'_Elevated breathing, jarring of fingers when 'My Immortal' began and followed closely by feelings of panic and shock; uncontrolled physical reaction to lyrics supports deduction of emotions subject felt, including final outcome of subject's efforts to regain control of said emotions and to rationalise situation to normality. Lyrics therefore hold special significance to subject.'_

But _what _significance?

Sherlock understood that the music John listened to was a conduit for his creative energy, allowing him to express his emotions in a deeper way that, if successful, would be shown in the image that was being completed at that time. John's own grief certainly hadn't ended, not even with Sherlock's return, his reaction to the song too emotional, a fight or flight instinct against the memories that Sherlock was certain revolved around his fall and death. The pictures that John had displayed on the wall held no such emotions within them, lovely as they were, and therefore were of no use to him. They were all depicting moments of their life from before when the days had blurred into each other, the work being the focus, the glue that had held them together initially before their bond had been created through danger, the adrenaline of the hunt and the spoils of victory. He would need to look at the evidence that was in front of him now, not then, and John's CD player was the best place to start.

He also knew he would have a better understanding of the way John's mind was working now by listening to that CD, sure that the overall tone of the songs would at least give credence to the thought that, although John was suppressing his grief in front of Sherlock, it was far from over and possibly never would be unless steps were taken to counteract it.

The question was how to take those steps without breaking John any further, but Sherlock shook his head at the thought and closed his eyes against the frustration at his indecision. No, that wasn't right; he needed John's resolve to crack, needed the careful composure that John had so rigidly built around himself to shatter. Sherlock didn't doubt his own ability to break men apart, dissect them piece by piece, and John was no stranger to that (having had it done to him by Sherlock the first time they'd met and been a passive observer thereafter). Sherlock had needed and enjoyed the process itself numerous times, watching people gawp and splutter as the truth about them was revealed, like he'd plucked it out of thin air when actually it was right there, blindingly obvious for anyone with the eyes to see it.

No, his concern was that although he was very good at taking people apart, he was a bit not good at putting them back together again. He'd never seen any reason to as they ended up doing that on their own, usually by hiding behind whatever they needed to so that they could convince themselves that Sherlock must have found out some other way. Must have bribed some weak public official to gain access to whatever file the British Government had on every single person in the country, as surely there could be no other explanation as to how a complete stranger could have known their secrets, their skeletons in the closet that they were sure had been closed, locked and forgotten about even to themselves.

John had his own fair share of skeletons, especially after the fallout from the war, but Sherlock knew that airing out cramped spaces and sorting through the debris of one's life was never an easy affair to deal with and John had already been broken to an extent. He needed to hope that what little strength John would have at the end of it would be enough to hold the man together in some form, some semblance of self that Sherlock could work with and mould back together, much like the doctor he knew John was capable of being but had never had any experience in himself.

Not to mention the fact that his own mind couldn't resist the chance at another experiment, another chance to see if he really was as good as he thought he was, even with the possibility that this could turn into a complete failure and leave them both broken and bleeding on the living room floor. But he had to try, for John's sake if not for his own, as a life spent in purgatory was no life at all and he couldn't watch John live through that if there was a chance that he could pull him from it.

He was very sure that John would be fast asleep now, his own exhaustion working against him to make his unconsciousness deep and undisturbed, which provided Sherlock with a golden opportunity to examine the evidence he needed without it being contaminated by John's presence. Although he couldn't shake the feeling that he was going behind John's back, which was entirely what he would be doing when the time came, it felt like a necessary step, so certain was he of the sensation in his gut that told him that John was hiding something and would not be forthcoming with it on his own.

Sherlock put the pad down to his left side, careful not to disturb the pages, before gingerly testing out the muscles in his legs and stomach. They didn't feel strong, not as strong as they were while he was on the hunt, but they had recovered somewhat since his influenza had started so he was hopeful that they would be able to support his weight now; if not, he would crawl to the living room, pride be damned. This _had_ to be done.

Swift calculations were made; time, distance and predicted muscle fatigue all added together, the numbers swirling in front of him as his gaze remained fixed on the light shining through the door, almost beckoning him to it like the light that people supposedly saw when they died, except this was different. This wasn't a search for the light, for the comfort of an afterlife with a benevolent deity. This was a search for the truth that could be found in the physical world, just beyond that door in fact, so close he feel it although it never remained in one place for long. Much like the faith that some people professed to have found in their own lives but were still searching for that one thing that would complete them. Somehow, the human mind still couldn't escape the need for proof, undeniable, empirical proof that even the strength of their faith couldn't quell.

'_Seek the truth and you shall find salvation.'_

Despite all his calculations and predictions, the journey from his bedroom to the living room, although quiet, was the hardest physical thing he'd done since he allowed himself to fall off the roof at Bart's. By the time he made it to the desk where the CD player was, his legs were trembling beneath him and his breathing was ragged, thankful for the various sturdy objects along the way (the wall, mostly) that had provided him with the stability he needed so he could find the strength he knew was buried in his body somewhere. Once he successfully manoeuvred his body into the chair, his frame slumped forward onto the table with his arms out in front of him, careful not to disturb any of the items there as he rested his head on his forearms to recover. His breathing sounded far too loud to his own ears and he held his breath for a moment, ears straining to hear any sign of movement from John's room in case he'd been disturbed. On hearing nothing, he proceeded to allow his breathing to reach its own equilibrium.

The CD player, _'Roberts, three-band, dual alarm with stereo, clock-radio with CD player; silver in colour, widely available from two-thousand and six onwards, popular with online retailers,'_ was on the right side of the table facing Sherlock. It appeared that John often preferred to sit where he could see his other drawings while using the music to inspire him, utilising the light from the windows to his advantage during the day and the light from the fire during the night. The fire had been put out long before they'd both gone to bed so the living room was dark now, just the light from the street outside shining through the windows in that garish yellow colour rather than the warm glow from the flames just hours before. It was still early, early enough that (if John had retained his predictable habits) meant the other man wouldn't even think about stirring until at least seven hours from now, just before nine in the morning. Plenty of time.

Sherlock's fingers shook when he forced himself to sit upright, his right hand clutching weakly at his stomach when it protested, trying to soothe the tense muscles while his eyes sought out the power button on the CD player. The usual place, to the left of the search, play and stop buttons, the whir of the CD inside a gentle sound while he found the volume dial on the right side and turned it down to its lowest point, allowing him more control over the sound as required while he waited for the reader to finish analysing the disc. The time was shown in green digits, not what he wanted to see, so he ensured that the device was aligned to the correct function and pressed the CD display button in the top left hand corner.

The number ten was shown on the main screen, obviously the amount of tracks on the disc, relatively short in comparison with the main stream compilations that could be found in a normal person's music collection. Couldn't be more than three-quarters of an hour at the most, the average track lasting about four minutes with a two second break between each track, but what did it matter in the end? He had four hours to kill (four of the seven available to listen to the music and evaluate its importance, three to leave everything as he found it and make it back to his room without John noticing that he'd ever been there).

His index finger didn't hesitate when he pressed the play button, the number one shining at him in a small green glow as his fingers reached around the side of the player for the volume control. Sherlock turned the dial up a fraction until the first notes of the song began to come through the speakers, the first notes of the piano and the strings morphing into long, fluid pieces that sounded like a build-up, but to what he couldn't be sure. He recognised the piece as that of 'Roslin and Adama' from the popular sci-fi series of Battlestar Galactica, but he'd never watched the series. Too dull, the concept of man-made machines rebelling against their creators, while in turn creating their own synthetic versions of the very thing they were trying to destroy; their purpose to infiltrate and besiege the last human beings in the galaxy.

Too predictable.

Yet John had chosen this track as his beginning, and in the context of drawing Sherlock's own image, it sounded like the beginning in more ways than the most obvious one. An opening into John's mind certainly, but what else?

The music itself sounded faintly melancholic, like mourning for something that had never come to pass, or indeed had come to fruition but was not the outcome that one had expected. A mourning for the loss of something which had been good, better than good, but which had been lost; meanwhile the drums nearer the end of the piece brought the overall tone of the music to a lighter feeling, like the sadness at the start had been tugged away. That it had worked out in the end and something more had come along, the drums heralding back to John's army days when everything was the battlefield and blood and death, but which had been found again, with joy and purpose.

With a small gasp, Sherlock's mind snapped into focus.

Of course!

His first meeting with John at Bart's, that fateful introduction which had heralded the start of a friendship that had blindsided both of them with its intensity. John had missed the war and had found it again through meeting Sherlock. Mycroft had said as much to him not long before he was smuggled out of England and into France, his first destination on a trail that would span two and a half gruelling years of exactly what John had missed before they met. 'Had' being the operative word in that sentence. John had found what he needed with Sherlock and the track was a reminder of that fact.

Heart heavy as the last notes of the song ended, Sherlock allowed the small break in-between the songs to settle him, barely breathing with the next one began, this one being much happier, electronic bass, strings and guitar working in harmony to leave joy in their wake. He didn't know who the artist was; found he didn't care, freeing his mind to the music and the journey that called to him because that's what it was. He could almost see himself in John's Mind Palace, the notes of the music floating in front of him and leading him to the various doors that opened to something precious; John's mind, his thoughts, his feelings, everything that made the man who he was. And this track spoke of friendship. Of a trust and brotherhood which had been forged in the fires of excitement and purpose.

A small smile graced Sherlock's lips, the corners of his mouth tilting up over the next two songs which held much of the same emotion within them, the same focus on the connection that they'd shared during those first days and beyond. There wasn't a chance John knew what the lyrics meant on the third song, unless he'd researched them or had learnt Gaelic after Sherlock's funeral and not told Sherlock about it (which was unlikely because he would have noticed John slipping into small tells easily if that were the case). It seemed that the lyrics themselves where there just because John liked the sound of the lady's voice and the lyrics themselves provided the spur that he needed to create his work. Nothing more strenuous than that.

His ears pricked up when the violin he so well remembered began to play, the unknown song, but he didn't skip it, allowing the violin and the piano to lead him down a different corridor of John's Palace. This didn't have the same feeling as the other songs; rather it was designed to be melancholic, to allow emotions and nostalgia to mix and converge while giving the listener a chance to view the whole process, and the memories, with happiness, not regret. It didn't mean that some things in those memories wouldn't be changed if they had the chance to do them again, but hindsight was a wonderful thing and most people could say that they wouldn't change one aspect about their lives because it made them who they are today.

All the arguments, the bickering over experiments left too long in the microwave when Sherlock forgot about them, why they kept running out of jam, why Sherlock had to be such an _arse_ to some people who clearly didn't deserve it. This song gave John the freedom to unearth those memories, accept them for what they were and not feel like he should have done something different. It was a reminder that the past was gone and couldn't be changed, so you may as well take the best from it.

Sherlock found himself looking back at his own memories during the song, dusting off the ones that had been left on the shelves too long but hadn't been deleted down to sentiment. The first proper smile his mother had given him when he was eight, having recited the French alphabet and words beginning with the letters perfectly, not a hitch to his rolling r's or his accent in general. The time when John told him he was brilliant after a particularly easy deduction, John's own mind still grasping just how good Sherlock's was at figuring things out and still amazed by it. Mycroft's smile of relief when Sherlock had told him that he'd stopped using drugs for good, thanks to his new flatmate who was, Sherlock had found, a bigger high than any of the substances he'd partaken in his youth and with far less side-effects.

Once the song had ended, and knowing what waited for him with the next one, the two second break was a welcome one indeed. So far, John's CD was awash with reminiscence, the songs very carefully chosen to give a certain feeling. Whatever feeling was inspired in Sherlock showed him by proxy the reason for the song being chosen in the first instance, each having a job to do in John's own mind and his art. So why had he picked 'My Immortal' on a CD which was very clearly there to aid his drawing?

The opening of 'My Immortal' began, and he had a feeling that he would have his answer shortly.

_**I'm so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears**_

_**And if you have to leave, I wish that you would just leave**_

'_**Cause your presence still lingers here and it won't leave me alone**_

'_Presence. Usually associated with an ethereal being, or ghost, refusing to cross to the afterlife for personal reasons. Lyrics denote anguish, pain of the singer mourning the loss of someone close to them. Wishes for the past, for the presence of the person to leave them so they can move on. Lyrics would suggest that John wished for his memories of me to leave him.'_

This would make sense. John's crying earlier that morning was the best example he had that the man was still grieving for the way Sherlock had left him, and the following lyrics in the song cemented it in Sherlock's mind.

_**These wounds won't seem to heal**_

_**This pain is just too real**_

_**There's just too much that time cannot erase**_

_'Wounds and pain described in lyrics match John's emotional reactions over the last forty-eight hours. Crying and feelings of panic supports theory that John has not recovered from incident at Bart's and lyrics are further evidence of the above. Conclusion, song chosen specifically for lyrics as an almost direct pathway to emotional trauma and anxiety, direct cause being my suicide.' _

Ah, but this was a feeling he remembered well. The lump in his throat from earlier had formed again when he had come to the conclusion of his analysis, his breath held in his chest when a particularly strong pang of _something_ echoed in his ribcage and settled around his heart. Amy Lee's voice did nothing to help ease it, her own sorrow in her past adding a depth to the words that no one could surpass and, Christ, had Sherlock hurt John this badly?

_**You used to captivate me**_

_**By your resonating light**_

_**Now I'm bound by the life you left behind**_

_**Your face it haunts**_

_**My once pleasant dreams**_

_**Your voice it chased away**_

_**All the sanity in me**_

John had often told Sherlock that he was amazing. Extraordinary, fantastic, undoubtedly the best man in his field and irreplaceable. The words of this particular verse gave credence to that because John had certainly been captivated by Sherlock's abilities and his presence which could be felt a mile away when he was feeling dramatic (which was almost always). He knew he'd had bad habits in leaving his experiments all over the flat where they would be in the way, and had absolutely no sense of decorum when the need called for it, but he hadn't thought that John would be _bound_ by him.

The boxes still resting beside the kitchen table said otherwise, the dust on them undisturbed; his experiments still on the table, hardly any of them moved from their original places unless they'd posed a threat to the surrounding vicinity and been disposed of. Sherlock had known when he first entered the flat that the boxes meant John hadn't worked up the courage to finish tidying up the rest of Sherlock's things, no matter how small, and the root cause of it was his inability to accept the changes that had happened. The experiments had been left because John hadn't been able to hush the voice that said Sherlock would return and demand to know what happened to them, some of them taking weeks to complete with round the clock care, knowing that the detective would naturally become outraged and storm to his room without emerging until the next morning.

His violin, still perched by his chair, had only been wiped clean in the time of his absence, but the apparent care that had been taken over it also screamed that John had been looking after it because he didn't want Sherlock to come back and see the state of it if it had been left unattended. Mycroft had asked for the violin once to try and get it back to Sherlock, who by that point was in Norway and was steadily going mad without it, but John had politely asked for the violin to remain where it was for now. His brother's words resounded in his head, still kind and apologetic. _"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but John has requested that your violin be left at the apartment in his care. Given the state of affairs that you have left behind for him to deal with, I saw no reason to deny him this request."_

Even Mycroft had known, better than himself, what was happening to John and had decided to aid John in whatever way he could to support his grief. His brother's own way of apologising for the mess that he'd inadvertently put Sherlock and John in by the end of Moriarty's master plan, without actually having to say anything because neither of the Holmes brothers were good at that sort of thing. Physical signs of affection, no matter how small, were always further reaching than those of words, but in this case leaving the violin with John seemed to have done more damage. Another thing of Sherlock's that needed looking after in case he returned.

_**I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone**_

_**But though you're still with me**_

_**I've been alone all along**_

No, no, no, it wasn't making sense! None of it! The pictures on the wall had nothing of this in them, this pain, this self-torture of the mind addled by grief. They were drawings of happiness, the strokes of the pencils, pens, charcoal; they had no agitation in them. Nothing spoke of John's torment that this song suggested - which had been chosen for a _reason,_ reasons that he had deduced by listening to the words and the effect that they would have on John. _'What am I missing, I can't have…I would have seen it, something, I was looking for it! For this, I can't have missed it…' _

Oh but he had, hadn't he? He'd missed all of John's emotional trauma initially because John had become a skilled liar since the Fall and Sherlock had badly wanted to believe him.

The end of the song but not the end of the disc. Not the end of the journey by far. The corridors of the Palace were darkened now, 'Something dark is coming' an appropriate track to fit alongside 'My Immortal'. John had never meant for the CD to be listened to by anyone but himself and this was his way of preparing himself mentally for the agony that would no doubt follow; this descent into the memory that haunted his dreams and waited for him in the depths of his psyche, a demon grown fat on the denial of its very existence. Of course John would need to prepare himself for it, would need to arm himself with all his weapons so he could return in one piece, although not unscathed.

The song was the longest one so far, eight minutes and fifty-five seconds with a gradual build-up throughout, which told Sherlock that this wasn't the battle. This was the prelude to it, John's way of searching for his demons so he could confront them, try to defeat them, but first he had to find them. John's army training was the definite culprit behind this song as the man himself could never go down without a fight, never give up trying to make things better and the only way to do that would be to flush the demons out.

The problem was that it hadn't been working. In the two days that he'd been back, Sherlock had seen no less than two instances where John's feelings over their separation had surfaced and they weren't happy ones. He knew that John had sought counselling after the Moriarty fiasco had finally died down, but that hadn't helped either, those pesky trust issues again, and he'd stopped going in the end.

So John knew that he'd needed help with his feelings, needed to come back to some level of what people would call normal after losing someone close to you, but he hadn't been able to achieve it, even with outside help. Although Sherlock knew that it wouldn't have made a difference to his goal in those early days, he still damned Mycroft for keeping this from him. John was one of the most important people in his life and his own brother hadn't told him about this. Why?

Amongst the thoughts that swept through his mind, Sherlock realised that the battle had begun, but not just with the grief that still crippled John when the memories came. This was a battle with Sherlock's nemesis, Moriarty, the music bringing back those last few days when the trap had grown tighter around them both and threatened to kill everything that he held dear. 'Icarus' by Michael McCann sounded through the speakers of the player, and when Sherlock felt something trickle down his face, his fingers coming away wet with tears, he knew what John had done by putting this song on the disc.

Before he'd made his decision to sacrifice himself rather than everything around him, both he and John had been fighting against a very real enemy, one that had wanted to watch him burn, destroy himself and his reputation in one fell swoop. His arrogance and pride were hefted to far beyond his station, much like Icarus himself with his wings made of feathers and wax, flying too close to the sun and falling into the sea where he drowned. Icarus's fall … Sherlock's Fall … both one and the same. Both suffering from hubris, the price being their downfall, and John had been there to watch it all happen, never to realise the truth.

Yes, Sherlock had taken his fall, he had been scorched by the sun with his overconfidence, but he had _survived_.

The last two songs on the disc spoke more of John's struggle to accept what had happened, the aftermath of the events, which were at best traumatic on their own, leaving their own share of scars on his army doctor. He recognised the opening piano of 'The Scientist', by Coldplay, as soon as it started and his hands flew to his mouth to stop the sob that tried to force itself from his throat as he remembered the words to the song. It described his and John's relationship almost perfectly; the both of them running through London's streets to catch criminals; Sherlock's attempts to teach John the Science of Deduction during their first cases together; his own fumbling attempts to tell John how much he was needed, how much he regretted having used John in several cases to help solve them despite the risk involved. And oh God, it had been the worst day of his existence when he'd seen John's face by the grave, wanting nothing more than to rush to him and tell him everything was ok, but forced to stay away until Moriarty's men had been dealt with.

'_The pictures! The pictures on the wall!'_

They were made from this song. Back to the start… John had wished for everything to go back to as it was before Moriarty, when everything had been, for lack of a better word, normal and safe, or as safe as could be when travelling the world with Sherlock Holmes. His profile by his microscope, his violin playing, all of it. All attempts to try and bury the bad memories underneath the good ones until they no longer existed, failing to take into consideration the possibility that buried emotions simply got stronger, like a champagne bottle being shaken until the cork burst from the top with the pressure underneath it.

Soft piano now, soft strings, a short piece full of hopeful longing and a subtle, quiet despair. The battle was over, the war was won, but the cost had been too high in the end. John hadn't recovered, Sherlock still hadn't told him why he'd done what he did, what he'd been forced to do, and the instrumental song managed to sum up everything that Sherlock had felt in the last forty-two minutes with barely any effort. He did what he had to do despite all his desire to the contrary, the music almost seemed to realise it, soothing his own pain at his choices and making way for the healing to begin. Yet, there it was, that faint undercurrent of tension right at the end, something more to come, something left unfinished that had to be dealt with.

With a hand that shook, he wiped his tears away from his eyes, solemn with the realisation that John hadn't reached his bursting point, not yet. Sherlock knew it needed to happen so John could start his own healing and they could both move on from this hurdle in their lives, but along with the knowledge that the break had to happen, Sherlock knew he would be the one to cause it.

_To be continued_

**A/N: I cried… **

**My thanks go to the people who have stuck with me throughout this story and who continue to support and inspire me, all readers and writers, past, present and future. I love you all! **

**Darkangel1211**

**A/N 2:**

**Due to numerous requests by my beloved readers/reviewers, I have posted the track listing of John's CD for your enjoyment. This is how it all worked out in my head and this was by far the hardest bit about the whole story - due respect to the people that make compilation CDs, they're hard work! :-)**

**My thanks and gratitude to the artists of these songs - without the inspiration provided by your music this story would not even exist. **

**1) Roslin and Adama - Bear McCreary (Battlestar Galactica OST)**

**2) I Love You Forever - Two Steps From Hell**

**3) Friendship To Last - Two Steps From Hell**

**4) Enigmatic Soul (Vocals) - Two Steps From Hell**

**5) Sad Romance (Violin Version) - Ji PyeongKyeon (지평권) (Over the Green Fields OST)**

**6) My Immortal (Band Version) - Evanescence **

**7) Something Dark Is Coming - Bear McCreary (Battlestar Galactica OST)**

**8) Icarus (Main Theme) - Michael McCann (Deus Ex: Human Revolution)**

**9) The Scientist - Coldplay**

**10) In Time Main Theme (Orchestral) - Craig Armstong (In Time OST)**


	10. Chapter 10

Sounds of an Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them. Neither do I own the lyrics that are in this part; they are the sole property of Dinah Washington.**

**A/N: And now the end is near… and so I face the final curtain… **

**Last chapter of the story, everyone – a really big thank you and hugs to all of you, whether you reviewed, favourited (sp?), followed or just read the story. Thanks for stopping by! :-) **

**This probably won't be my last piece, not with the whirlwind that is my imagination at the moment, but it's going to be hard to top this one I think (especially for my first ever Sherlock fic)… Nothing less than well thought-out plot is deserved for my readers. So maybe you'll see me again soon (with Sherlock and John of course).**

**By the way, I have amended the dates within the story. I had a quick re-read and found they were slightly off so this has been fixed. If you spot anything else that needs amending please let me know. **

**Warnings: angst, emotional trauma, hurt-comfort. **

Part Ten

Sherlock's POV

The morning of Sunday the fifteenth of December arrived and John's prediction that his influenza would only last for a few days turned out to be startlingly accurate, although Sherlock wasn't sure why he was surprised because John was, after all, a doctor and an expert in his field. Since the night that Sherlock had ceased to vomit he'd found that his health had steadily improved; he could now stand on his own without support and was starting to regain the strength in the muscles of his arms and legs. In fact, he was now able to walk around the apartment with a liveliness that he hadn't felt since his return to the flat. A small amount of disappointment was aimed at his core strength which was lagging behind the rest of his recovery but, considering what he'd just been though, completely understandable.

Eating, not something that he had a habit of keeping track of at the best of times, was also making a much needed return; dry toast to begin with and then the addition of the ever-predictable scrambled eggs, purposefully overcooked because he couldn't stomach anything of a sloppy consistency without it making him want to retch. And, perhaps the most important milestone of all, his first cup of tea since his illness began, made just the way he liked it by John's steady hands and sipped slowly, ensuring each draw was swirled around his mouth to be savoured before being swallowed by a throat that no longer pained him.

When it was physically apparent that he was getting better, John had made it very clear that it was time for him to have a bath, shower, anything really, to rid himself of the sweat and grime that was a usual accompaniment to any bodily sickness. And that too had been a welcome relief. He'd never been particularly fastidious when he and John had first moved in together, often traipsing about the flat in his dressing gown and, when the mood took him, his bed sheets. But cleanliness had always been at the forefront of his mind (there wasn't a chance that he would allow his own body to contaminate a crime scene if he could prevent it), and to go even two days without a proper wash was an uncomfortable experience to say the least, let alone the four that it turned out to be. John had been on hand to assist in case he was needed, Sherlock opting for a shower so he could continue to build up his core strength, making full use of the privacy glass so John could remain in the bathroom with him while he washed.

Both of them had been quiet in the twenty-two minutes, seven seconds that it took Sherlock to finish under the showerhead but that was ok; the silence had been companionable, not tense, and, whether it was a testament to John's strength of character as a doctor or the fact that they'd been through the seven circles of Hell together, when Sherlock emerged from the shower with nothing on John hadn't a single trace of blush of his cheeks. Had even gone as far as to hold the bath towel open for Sherlock to step into, curling it around his body before relinquishing his hold on it and allowing Sherlock to dry himself off, a small smile on John's face when he saw the vigour with which Sherlock finished his shower and pulled clean clothes on.

His usual suit, a Spencer-Hart, the slide of the shirt over his skin and the ease with which the jacket slipped over his shoulders and around his back a feeling that he'd missed dreadfully. Like most of the things he'd had to leave behind, his clothing was something that he had become associated with through his most famous cases, a Sherlock Holmes trademark, and therefore was no longer allowed to use whilst he was in hiding. He'd had to cut his hair, dye it a horrid red colour that had turned to an equally displeasing ginger after the initial layer of dye had washed off, his clothing reduced to ill-fitting t-shirts, baggy jeans that had needed a belt to keep them up and a pair of running trainers that had seen better days after he was through with them.

So when he finished dressing and saw himself in the mirror above the sink, his shoulders visibly relaxed when the image reflected back at him was something that he recognised. John's reflection was over his left shoulder, the other man leaning against the opposite wall of the bathroom and watching Sherlock look at himself. Sherlock knew that John was also searching out the familiarities of the person they had both known before the Fall; looking for that inherent ability to carry himself in his tracksuit bottoms in the same way as he would march through London's streets with a freshly pressed suit; the flash of arrogance and pride when a particularly detailed case had a breakthrough, often with John giving Sherlock his undivided attention as the explanations poured into the crime scene with all the bluntness that only Sherlock seemed to possess. Self-assured, proud to the point of being egotistical, not above using people's emotions against them when the situation called for it, certainly not above making himself appear emphatic to other people and then switching it off when he'd gotten what he needed.

That was all about to change though.

Without being obvious about it, which would have drawn unwanted attention, Sherlock started doing things around the flat; tidying up after himself, making his own tea or a light lunch when his body called for it; the sort of thing he'd had to do when he was hunting with no John available to cater to his every whim. He tidied up his experiments on the kitchen table, none of which had yielded the results he'd been hoping for anyway so had no qualms about disposing of them, and was vaguely pleasant to Mrs Hudson when she popped in for a chat to enquire on his welfare, her being fully briefed on the last few days and his somewhat fragile condition.

Contrary to what both he and John predicted, Mrs Hudson's reaction to Sherlock's return hadn't been what they'd been expecting at all. John had done his utmost to prepare her for what she would see without actually _telling_ her what it was, so when she walked through the front door to see Sherlock leaning against the mantelpiece on top of the fireplace they still had the desired shock factor from her, but she hadn't fainted. Her eyes had stared at Sherlock for about five seconds, no more, her mouth still open from where she had been verbally waving away John's concerns over the surprise, before walking up to him and slapping him around the face. Now _that_ had been something that Sherlock was expecting but before he could say anything he'd found himself with an armful of his landlady, her arms reaching up around his shoulders to pull him down into a hug which he'd quickly reciprocated.

For the second time in thirty-six hours, Sherlock's mind had gone blissfully still during that hug. He'd closed his eyes, the better to catalogue the feel of Mrs Hudson against him; the way her hands had gripped around his neck to keep him in place with his head resting on her shoulder, the scent of her perfume, _'Chanel __N°5__'_, flowing into him with each inhale, his own arms around her waist and across her shoulder blades to keep her close. Nothing had been said during those quiet moments, not verbally, but Sherlock's mind hadn't been able to stop thanking her for all she'd done for him while he was alive and, more importantly, the things she'd done after his death. She didn't have to put John up in the flat when he couldn't afford it on his own income, but she'd allowed him to stay nonetheless, offering whatever support she could during those dark days after the Fall. If she hadn't have done that, there was no telling what John would have been like when he returned; however, it was logical to assume that, as bad as John was now, he would have been worse still without the encouragement of the people around him to keep him going.

For once his silence during his reunion with Mrs Hudson seemed to be all the thanks he needed to say. He must have communicated it to her through his obvious reluctance to let her go when the appropriate time came for the contact to end. Her small smile and the wetness around her eyes had told him that she understood, their arms still wrapped around each other when they pulled back to look at the other person, history and reality clashing against each other in the space between them. John had been standing in the doorway to the flat with his arms behind his back, watching the scene unfold and come to a peaceful conclusion despite the small onset of physical pain at the start. And, slowly, things had started to go back to normal.

Both Sherlock and John had decided that his return was to be kept a secret while Sherlock finished collating the evidence to prove his innocence, and Mrs Hudson was in full agreement with them. There wasn't any doubt in their minds that this was going to turn into a major scandal once the truth was revealed and Sherlock wanted to ensure that his hand was held close until the time was right. It wasn't time, yet, but it soon would be if everything went according to plan.

The hands on the clock in the living room showed ten past eight in the morning and Sherlock felt the weight of the hour keenly, all too aware of how quickly those hands moved when one wasn't paying enough attention. John was getting ready to go out to buy some more supplies for them, a run that would take at least twenty minutes if everything went John's way, and Sherlock was content for the moment to watch the other man as the final preparations were made before his departure.

"Are you sure you're going to be ok?" John asked him (for the third time since he'd made the decision to go shopping).

Sherlock made a great show of rolling his eyes although he was smiling. "Yes, John. Honestly, you don't need to keep asking me the same question when you know the answer isn't going to be any different. You're not that dull."

A short laugh escaped John, Sherlock's own smile becoming a wide grin at seeing the ease in which John smiled now, the echoes of laughter embedding themselves in the walls and lending everything a shine that had yet to fade. He stood up and retrieved his scarf from around his coat where it was hanging on the back of the door, motioning for John to halt when he was about to put his coat on to brave the chill of an English winter. It was actually snowing outside, an occurrence that was happening more frequently in the south of England, and he didn't want John getting sick. With quick, efficient movements, he wrapped his scarf around John's neck, the way that he would do on his own person, not missing the way that John was looking at him now; eyes wide, pupils consuming the iris until only a thin sliver of colour remained and breath held.

Few people were lucky enough to escape his scathing remarks, even fewer to actually have a conversation with him that didn't end in some misguided sense of affront at his lack of tact. So it was no wonder that John was, for lack of a better word, in awe of being given the courtesy to use Sherlock's scarf, despite the relationship that they now shared.

Having thought long and hard about it, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that they were no longer friends. There were clearly defined markers that said what a friend could and could not do, especially one between two male flatmates, and his memory of recent events told him that they'd passed those particular lines in the sand a while ago. Although a friend may stay close while the other one showered so that they could be kept safe, they didn't wrap the other in a towel in as quite a familiar way as John had done. Friends, although the fairer sex were notorious for doing it, didn't come up behind the other person and wrap their arms around them, something that Sherlock had come to enjoy doing on John because of two things. The first was their differences in height; his own body allowing him to curl his arms around John's chest and rest his head atop the other man's if he chose to do so, also allowing John's head to tip back onto one of his shoulders if John decided he wanted to.

Which was often.

The second reason, although not second in importance, was the closeness that was created between them when Sherlock chose to initiate the contact. He hadn't said sorry to John for what he'd done; somehow the words didn't feel right, and he wanted to be able to do something that showed John, in his own way, how he was feeling. The hugs were more than just physical contact. It was to provide John with proof that Sherlock was alive, something that needed more reminders than he was comfortable with right now, usually required the morning after a sleepless night which left them both more than a little tetchy without something to diffuse it.

John hadn't objected to the increase in what was, for Sherlock, physical intimacy bordering on an invasion of one's personal space and Sherlock wasn't sure if he should shocked at the change in himself over a certain doctor, or be shocked at John's reactions to him. And decided that it didn't matter in the end. If John was comfortable with the change in their relationship, than so was Sherlock.

When John had finished getting his coat on and was heading towards the door to leave the flat Sherlock hadn't given him a hug; that was reserved for other times but he didn't want John to leave without a reminder of himself. His right hand reached for John's left, the one closest to him, and lightly clasped their fingers together, his thumb stroking over the tops of John's knuckles in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. He felt it, the faint twitch in John's hand as his brain registered the contact for what it was, might even have been a tremor on John's part, but when those fingers curled back over his own Sherlock allowed himself to relax. His doctor understood.

He hoped it would be enough.

The flat had now been empty for two minutes and twenty-nine seconds with no return from John, which meant he hadn't forgotten his card and was definitely on his way to the shops. Sherlock wanted to berate himself for waiting as long as he had, but he had to be sure. He'd managed to cover up his night of listening to John's music without any hiccups as the doctor hadn't woken until late the next morning as predicted, but this was to be an entirely different affair. He couldn't take any more risks than necessary.

John's bedroom door was open when he reached the top of the staircase, stopping at the threshold and looking around the room with the scrutiny that had once made him famous. The bed had been made, standard military precision befitting a man of John's rank before his injury, his slippers beside his bed and side by side; within easy reach for him when he woke in the morning for him to slip his feet into. A few picture frames were on John's chest of drawers, family photos of happier times with his sister, Harriet, and other family members. There was one of his promotion to Captain in the army, John in his dress-uniform, his mother and father (of course it was obvious who they were) standing beside him for the picture and all of them beaming. Photos from before and therefore not relevant.

Sherlock kept looking around the room, careful not to disturb anything when he looked in those drawers, checked John's bedside cabinet, underneath the bed, but he didn't find anything. The wardrobe didn't have anything of note inside it, just John's shirts and trousers for his work at the practice (before he'd stopped going, that is) and a spare pair of shoes at the bottom on a shoe rack which had been built into the unit. Across to the right, between the door and the wardrobe, was another door, a cupboard of sorts with three shelves in it, all of which were low enough for John's stature as the highest rungs in the walls exceeded Sherlock himself and John would have had no hope of reaching them without a stepladder.

The shelves themselves hadn't been used despite their being within easy reach, their white, reflective surface gleaming at Sherlock when he turned on the light switch adjacent to the door, but underneath the bottom shelf was a beige oak box, tucked down close the wall and secured with a bolt the thickness of Sherlock's thumb. Not a large box, twenty-two centimetres high and thirty centimetres in width on both sides, but sturdy, with enough weight to it that it took Sherlock a few huffs to pull it out so he could unlatch it and open the lid.

A blaze of crimson met his eyes, the colour shocking him in its intensity against the backdrop of the wood. His fingers lifted the colour from the box, realising it was paper of the same make as John's drawings; paper which had been cut to the size of the box lid to hide the contents underneath from view. The colour, an oil base, had been painted on in angry strokes with a one-inch brush, so clearly the John Watson he knew and cared for hadn't done this, nor the artist he knew from the drawings in the living room. There had been considerable effort to cover the whole page in paint, but rather than using a two-inch brush which would have completed the goal much faster, John had used a smaller brush and the paint itself had been layered several times, ten or more judging by the depth of the colour and the intensity of the strokes. _'Why, John? What were you thinking about?' _He set the page down on the floor beside him and looked back at the box again, turning his mind to the items held within.

The box was full to the brim of A4 size pages that had been folded in half twice to fit into the space and they weren't labelled in any particular order, each looking as though it had been folded up and put on top of the others before being hastily covered with the crimson page. Sherlock unfolded one page slowly, hearing the soft sound the paper made when he moved it, and saw a pencilled version of St Bart's hospital from street-view, as though he were looking up at the building. As before, like the drawing in the living room where John's body in the picture had only served as a proximity indicator, John's image in this drawing was to the same effect, showing the distance between himself and the figure standing on the roof, with his long, billowing coat and, clearly seen even from John's distance, his right hand held up towards his head, fingers no doubt clutching the mobile phone that had heralded his last goodbye. A date, again in the bottom right-hand corner like the others.

The first of November, two thousand and thirteen.

Another page also in pencil, this one of that same figure falling towards the ground, limbs flailing as if he could stop himself somehow, defy gravity and not hit the pavement, but this image was closer, as though John had been standing closer to the building than before and had been watching from almost underneath Sherlock. But that wasn't possible. John had obeyed Sherlock's command to stay away, he hadn't been that close before.

This one dated the eighteenth of November, two thousand and thirteen.

A third page and the first colour Sherlock had seen being used in John's drawings. The same colour as the crimson on the covering page, spilling from Sherlock's body on the ground and pooling around his head, life's blood, but the image was blurred, unfocussed. Side effects of John's knock from where the cyclist had crashed into him, making everything fuzzy and uncoordinated.

Twenty-fifth of November, twenty-thirteen.

By the fifth page his fingers had started shaking, his breathing fast in his chest. Sherlock was lying on the ground, now on his back, and John had a hold of his wrist to check for his pulse, bold, thick letters blazing across the top, disjointed where the pencil had kept snapping with the pressure, each letter painful and raw.

_**He's my friend.**_

_**He's my friend, please.**_

Twenty-eighth of November, twenty-thirteen.

Further pages were opened, each one put on the floor after he'd looked at them, all depicting Sherlock's body in varying tones of black, grey and white, making the red slashes on the page much brighter in contrast, drawing the eye to them and the way in which the painting had been done . No flowing lines here, no easy movements, each brush stroke had been harsh and unforgiving, a staggering reminder of the mark John had made on the picture of Sherlock sleeping, the one they'd finished together. Each flashback, each memory a physical jolt, like an electric shock, forcing John's hand across the page and the brush with it.

Twenty-two minutes past eight. Sherlock folded each piece of paper as he'd taken them out of the box and placed them back inside as they'd been before, mentally counting down the minutes till John's return, calculating that he would have finished shopping and be on his way back, no doubt in a taxi as that would be easier than carrying the bags on the streets. He pushed the box back into position and turned off the light, closing the door and walking quickly from John's bedroom, down the stairs and into the living room, sitting in his chair just as the front door to the building opened.

The rustle of the bags preceded John up the stairs, his face when he came into the flat still red from the wind chill and his hands clasping three bags in all. Sherlock met John's eyes over the steeple of his fingers, smiling back when John grinned at finding him still there, not an imagination in any way, but he couldn't stop himself from watching the _way_ John smiled, how, even though he was getting more practice at it, it never seemed to reach his eyes the way it used to.

Sherlock broke the eye contact first and focussed his attention on more important matters to hand.

He now had the proof he'd been looking for and started to formulate a plan.

* * *

Quarter to eight in the evening, same day. "John, can you come here please?" Sherlock called from living room. John was upstairs at the moment, putting away his laundry for the day, but his footsteps resounded eagerly down the stairs at the sound of Sherlock requesting his presence. Sherlock held up one hand to stop the other man from speaking when John came into the living room and continued. "I have an experiment that I need your assistance with, if you don't mind."

Unlike before, where John's face would have fallen at the mention of _more bloody experiments_, he now leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and nodded for Sherlock to continue.

"You asked me for something very recently," Sherlock explained, "and I haven't forgotten it. I was merely wondering if you would like to try something a bit different with me."

John reached up to the scratch the back of his neck in a manner that was now a physical characteristic of him holding his patience. "Well, if you actually tell me what it is you want to do, I can decide whether or not I'll want to do it, can't I."

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and without a word he reached down beside him and pulled up his violin case, laying it across his legs to open it and take his violin into his arms, placing the case back on the floor. He looked it over briefly, noting where the strings had come loose and would need retightening, the bow which would need re-oiling, and looked at John again. "I now have the strength to play for you, if you wish, but there is something that I would like you to do for me as well."

All of John's patience seemed to dissipate with Sherlock's words, his eyes eager and his posture almost humbled at Sherlock's admission that he needed _his_ help. "Yes, of course. What is it you need?"

Sherlock reached into his violin case and began the necessary preparations for playing an instrument that hadn't been used in over two years, eyes flicking to John every so often to gauge his reactions to what he was doing. "I had an idea to play you some select pieces that I found during my exile, so to speak, because I think they are pleasing to the ear and I would like to share them with you. But I would also like you to share something new with me, something that you hadn't done when we were living together before." A brief pause. "I would like you to draw for me, John, while I am playing."

Ah, there it was; that small hesitance. "Sherlock…" John said, "I'm flatted, really, but-"

"No buts, John. This is something that I want to share with you and those are the terms. I would very much like for you to draw for me and I in turn will play for you." Sherlock finished cleaning his violin, added the final touches to his bow and wandered over to his laptop perched on the edge of the desk with his instrument clasped in one hand. His fingers very quickly brought up iTunes and selected the playlist he'd made a few hours earlier while John had showered, but he didn't press play immediately, instead looking over his shoulder and giving John a meaningful look.

John seemed to realise that his resistance to Sherlock's request was a futile venture at best, for when had it ever occurred that Sherlock didn't somehow get his own way when he truly wanted something? So he turned and went to his bedroom to retrieve his drawing materials, shoulders squared with an almost defiant tilt to his jaw, suggesting that he was only doing this because Sherlock was being an arrogant, persistent man who didn't know how to take no for an answer.

When John returned to the living room with his materials, Sherlock already had his violin on his shoulder and was rememorizing the way it felt in his hands, on his body, the comforting weight of it and the ease with which he was able to move around the room while he tried out a few practice strings. Nothing to make a coherent piece that John would recognise, waiting patiently while the other man sat himself in his chair and turned to a new page on his sketch pad, newly sharpened pencil in hand.

"So how did you want to do this, Sherlock?" John asked, putting his left ankle on his right knee so he could rest his pad on his thigh, the maximum amount of comfort to be achieved in a position where he could still see Sherlock while he was drawing.

Sherlock took his violin from his shoulder and walked back over to his laptop, highlighting the first song and turning around so he could address John directly. "Most of these pieces start with a piano before the strings begin but I'm asking you not to be put off by that. Also, like all experiments, this will need a properly controlled environment if the results are to be accurate. I would like you to listen to the music with me, watch the way that I am playing and while you're doing that I want to draw. It doesn't matter what you draw, it can even be me if you like, but above all else I need you to focus on me until all the songs have finished and not move from where you are sitting. Can you do that?"

If John looked uncomfortable with the directions, he didn't let it show on his face, looking more curious than anything else, and it was with John's eyes on him that Sherlock clicked the 'play' button.

The first notes of the song came through the speakers and Sherlock studiously kept his back turned so John couldn't use him as a distraction. He needed all of John's attention on the music until the time came for him to play. The volume wasn't turned up especially loud but the atmosphere in the flat meant the sound carried easily from his laptop and, like John did with his drawing, he began to let the music in. His eyes strayed to the snowflakes which were drifting and settling on the window-sill, seeming to follow the tempo and the melodies that the artist had created, providing a sort of lulling comfort for him when the backing strings were about to bring in the main string quartet. Only then did he lift his violin to his shoulder and, turning around to face John again, begin to play.

True to his word, John had already begun to draw, but he wasn't looking at Sherlock for the moment despite Sherlock asking him to do the opposite, content it seemed to focus on his drawing, the soft sound of the pencil on the paper almost lost in the music. It didn't stop Sherlock from his playing, allowing his body to tilt and sway as his fingers lovingly moved along the neck of his violin and locating the notes with ease. The fact that he was playing along to another song didn't detract him from his rhythm; everything felt flawless and exquisite, like he was the lead violinist and the other instruments were merely adding to his brilliance. Every so often he would look over to John, and once, briefly, their eyes met during a particularly emotional movement before Sherlock closed his eyes against the contact, willing John to focus on his playing, on his body language before the final notes of the piano heralded the end of the piece.

Neither of them spoke during the two second silence and before long the noise of thunder and rain accompanied another piano, a different rhythm to the previous song and completely at odds with the snowfall outside, but Sherlock readied himself while glancing at John's drawing, spotting a tall figure dancing across the page with a grace and precision that Sherlock was unconsciously able to provide. The movement of the music was easy to fall into and before long he found himself twirling around the living room, as though he held a lover in his arms that needed all of his skills as an artist to make them sing. He could feel John's eyes on him as he lost himself to it, the act of playing, and if anything it made him feel bolder, made it easier for him to express the emotion he felt while handling his instrument and coaxing beautiful sounds from her.

As before, neither of them spoke during the song, although now the atmosphere of the flat had changed; there wasn't any tenseness at all, it was the wrong word, but more an anticipation of what was to come. So when the next song began to play, Sherlock knew that his performance during the two previous tracks would give John the freedom to express himself in his own work and indeed it was doing just that. During the beginning of the experiment John's movements had been rigid and tense, still unsure as to how he should progress, but with the physical proof of Sherlock letting himself go, throwing himself wholeheartedly into this moment, his own drawing had become more relaxed and more dramatic, the movement of the pencil on the paper discernible and flowing with a melody all of its own.

It was when Sherlock noted that John was at his most relaxed, and the song had reached its crescendo, that he spoke. "I'm a fake."

At first, it didn't seem like the words had registered for John did not stop in his drawing, but his eyes now had a focus to them that hadn't been there before. Sherlock didn't let it deter him, continuing on with his playing as the words poured from his lips, the sound of the music heightening the emotion that he fed into his voice and keeping his gaze on John. "The newspapers were right all along… I want you to tell Lestrade… I want you to tell Mrs Hudson… And Molly…"

John's lips were pursed now, his breathing laboured and his eyes threatened with tears, but he didn't stop drawing, even when every other word seemed to shake him where he sat, marring his work, but not once did he lift his eraser to try and correct it. The sight of the other man's emotional distress was heart-breaking, but Sherlock used this to his advantage, using his pain and forcing it into his words as the next track started. "In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty, for my own purposes."

He saw it, the exact moment when John decided that he couldn't deal with this, couldn't continue with the experiment and threw his pad down, preparing to retreat, but it made his next words that much easier. "No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!"

Sherlock had stopped playing now, leaving the music on in the background as he held his right hand out towards John and fixed him with the same desperate stare that he knew John hadn't been able to see when he'd been on the rooftop at Bart's. It served its intended purpose, pinning John to his seat and rendering him incapable of moving. "Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" The sound of John's voice, quiet and ragged, almost startled Sherlock out of his focus, but he wrenched it back, keeping himself in this moment with John, this memory made flesh.

"This phone call, it's um… it's my note… It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note…"

John's eyes were streaming tears, his hands clenched in his lap, his drawing forgotten on the floor with all the lines that the pencil had made, the same thick lines that matched the drawing in the box from where the pencil kept breaking from the pressure of John's movements. "Why?" The word was a broken sob, forcing its way from John's throat, choked and brittle, so Sherlock didn't hesitate when he rushed to John's chair and pulled him to its edge, caging him in his arms and burying his face in John's hair.

_**This bitter Earth**_

_**Well, what the fruit it bears**_

_**Ooooh**_

_**This bitter Earth**_

"I had no choice, John. Please believe me. Please, I had to do it… I had to…" He didn't realise that he'd started crying until he felt the wetness trickle down his cheeks to drip on John's neck, the tightness in his chest threatening to suffocate him. "Moriarty, he… he was going to kill you… all of you… Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and you, John. I tried to stop him, but he shot himself before I could make him call off the snipers."

_**And if my life is like the dust**_

_**Ooh that hides the glow of a rose**_

_**What good am I?**_

He almost trembled with relief when he felt John's arms clutch at his shirt before moving around his body to return the embrace, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder to drown out his sobs. "You… you did it _for _me?"

_**Heaven only knows**_

Sherlock heard the disbelief in his friend's voice, quickly rushing to correct the assumption. "If they didn't see me jump… If the news didn't broadcast my suicide, you would have died. I couldn't let that happen, John. I couldn't watch you die when I thought I could save you!"

_**Lord, this bitter earth**_

_**Yes, can be so cold**_

_**Today you're young**_

_**Too soon, you're old**_

His words seemed to loosen whatever knot had been left in John after his fake suicide; his body slumping forward into Sherlock's when all his strength bled from him. Sherlock took the weight gratefully, willing his friend to be strong through the healing of a wound that had gone too long untreated. Through the sounds of their shared pain, the lyrics and strings of the last song Sherlock had chosen seemed rather fitting in hindsight, but even he could not have predicted that it would turn out like this, although he had always really hoped to find the forgiveness that he'd sought from the moment his feet left the roof, two and a half years ago, in John's arms.

_**But while a voice within me cries**_

_**I'm sure someone may answer my call**_

_**And this bitter earth**_

_**Ooooh**_

_**May not, ohhh, be so bitter after all**_

John's hands finally grasped back at Sherlock's body, pressing away until he was looking up at Sherlock and cupping his face with one hand while the other fisted in the front of his shirt, bringing them closer together until their foreheads touched, their breaths and their tears mingling between them.

_**This bitter earth**_

_**Lord, this bitter earth**_

Their breathing had become opposite, so for every breath that Sherlock took he was inhaling John's and John's was the same, each becoming the half of one whole. For that was what it always had been, was destined to be from the moment that Mike Stamford introduced them. Hadn't it?

"I forgive you, Sherlock." Each word spoken against his lips, each one leaving him wondering how this was even possible while still feeling the brush of John's mouth against his own. Before those lips were pressing against his, tentative at first, unsure, and then with a rising heat as Sherlock felt himself reciprocating, tangling his fingers in John's hair to keep him close.

And when the heat settled into a deeper, more intense burn which was rapidly rising to consume them both, his last coherent thought was, _'Oh god, yes it had.'_

_**What good is love, mmmm that no one shares**_

_**And if my life is like the dust**_

_**Ooh that hides the glow of rose**_

_**What good am I?**_

_**Heaven only knows.**_

_The End_

**A/N: Please find below a list of the songs for Sherlock's track-list for your listening enjoyment, all of which can be found on YouTube and/or iTunes. Please support the artists in this fic if you can, they have been a real inspiration to me :-) **

**Thank you again for travelling with me on this wonderful journey and I hope to see you all again soon.**

**All my love,**

**Darkangel1211 **

**For a Lost Love – Adrian Von Ziegler**

**Your Dying Heart – Adrian Von Ziegler**

**Darkness, Beloved – Adrian Von Ziegler**

**Requiem for the Nameless Dead – Adrian Von Ziegler**

**This Bitter Earth (On the Nature of Daylight) – Dinah Washington and Max Richter (Shutter Island OST)**


	11. Sequel Posted

Hi everyone! :-)

Just a quick update to let you know the sequel has been posted (it is currently a WIP) so if anyone is interested please take a look if you haven't already.

It's called 'Why Do We Fall?'

Thank you again for your support for 'Sounds of an Artist', you've all been brilliant! :-)

With love and hugs

Darkangel1211 xxx


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